


Every New Beginning

by fencer_x



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blow Jobs, But a happy ending (promise!), Dementors, F/F, F/M, Fingering, Hand Jobs, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Magical Creatures, Off-Screen Major Character Death, Time Travel, Unspeakables, very brief mentions of suicidal thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-01 10:36:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 140,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20256736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fencer_x/pseuds/fencer_x
Summary: “You curl your lip and wrinkle your nose and sneer and call me Saviour, yet you only seek my help at the eleventh hour.That’swhat’s fucked up, Malfoy.” || Draco Malfoy is dead, and Harry is absolutely totally fine with that.





	1. Chapter 1

Harry supposed he could have checked ahead of time just how cold the North Sea actually was in July. 

Perhaps if he had practised a bit of uncharacteristic forethought, he wouldn’t have found himself here, standing in the dour, dank receiving room of Azkaban, carefully disrobing and casting off multiple layers of what had turned out to be quite unnecessary outerwear—a cagoule on loan from Hermione’s dad; a heavy trenchcoat with Waterproofing and Warming Charms sewn into the lining; a thick woollen scarf in faded reds and golds Molly had knit for him three Christmases back; a pair of overtrousers he’d bought last-minute from Tesco—before a gaoler who wouldn’t stop sighing every thirty seconds. As if waiting for Harry Potter to strip down was the most tedious job he’d ever been tasked with and was severely cutting into his time sat on his arse in front of the Wireless.

“Ain’t you done _yet_, Potter?” 

“Do I _look_ done, Savage?” Harry felt entitled to his snippy tone. On top of being drenched from the boat ride over, he was having more than a bit of difficulty getting his overtrousers off; one leg was caught, so he had to hop about on the other trying to wriggle free. He might have been tempted to just fire off a Slicing Hex and write off the ten quid as a loss had his wand not already been impounded, safely ensconced now in a glass case protected by a colourful array of charms sure to cause severe bodily harm should they be breached.

Savage shrugged his beefy shoulders. “Maybe wearing yer trousers half-off is the fashion nowadays on the mainland; I wun’t know, seeing as you lot’ve ‘ad me up here for _thirteen bloody months_.”

“I’m not in charge of rotations, Savage; take it up with Robards if you’re missing jolly old London.” He finally freed himself from the overtrousers, leaving them in a crumpled pile of polyester on the grimy stone slates beneath his boots. Good riddance. “And you said I’ve got to remove my outerwear, so I’m removing my outerwear.”

“_I_ din’t say so; manual says so. Rules are rules, Potter. Even _you’ve_ gotta abide by ‘em sometimes. Don’t look for any special treatment ‘ere—you’ll get an hour with the prisoner an’ no more.” His bulging eyes rolled to the clock hanging on the wall of his little glassed-in cubicle; it had but one hand, presently pointed squarely at ‘_Time to contemplate the inexorable passage of time_’. “An’ your time started fifteen minutes ago.”

Harry kicked aside the overtrousers with a curse, marching over to the entry gate and banging loudly on the iron bars. “Fine, right, let me through then.”

“Not so fast there—” Savage eased up from his chair, waving his wand with a bored _flick_ and snatching a ring of heavy keys from a hook by the door to his cubicle as he waddled out. A piece of parchment popped into existence just below Harry’s nose, an inked quill floating in the air beside it. “Y’have to sign in.”

“…He _asked_ for me. It’s already in your records.”

Savage moved his lips in a mocking imitation. “I don’t give a fig. Sign in, full name an’ the purpose of your visit.”

A _visit_. Like he was here on holiday—because everyone knew Azkaban was _the_ hot-ticket getaway spot these days. Not that Harry’d taken a holiday in…so long he couldn’t remember where he’d last gone much less when. But still, if he was of a mind to request some time off, take a sabbatical and recharge, it sure as hell wouldn’t be here, signing his name in at the Azkaban visitor’s entrance and waiting to be escorted to the cell of Draco Malfoy on this the eve of his being Kissed.

No, he could easily think of at _least_ three other much more appealing destinations. Perhaps nestled in the heart of an Acromantula nest, or strolling through the kelp forests along the bottom of the Black Lake.

The parchment and quill vanished with a _snap_ once Harry had finished, and the great iron gate swung open outward as Savage waved him through, stopping him once he’d crossed the threshold with a held-up hand. “Arms out. No false moves.”

“You _just_ saw me disrobe, Savage. What exactly are you expecting me to pull?”

“Who knows what sort of mischief-making paraphernalia you’ve got stored on yer person—or _where,_” Savage grunted, waving a Probity Probe over Harry and poking him with it at odd intervals. “Yer best mates with Weasley, an’ I ‘ear business is boomin’.” 

And all right, he had a point, but Harry wasn’t here to ‘make mischief’. At least, he didn’t think so—truthfully, he didn’t exactly know _what_ he was here for. 

He only knew that Malfoy had asked for him, when offered a last request before his sentence was meted out. Perhaps a deathbed confession, as it were? 

Not that there was really all that much left for him _to_ confess—he was getting the Kiss, after all. Hardly anyone got Kissed these days—even Malfoy’s dad had avoided it, though only because he’d died before the Wizengamot had finished handing down sentences to all the convicted Death Eaters in the early months following Voldemort’s downfall. Harry didn’t know if that rightly counted as ‘avoiding’ it, but given he’d heard the Kiss was a fate worse than death, perhaps Lucius had lucked out in the end after all.

Evidently satisfied Harry wasn’t trying to smuggle in contraband clenched betwixt his arse cheeks, Savage finally waved him along, leading the way to Malfoy’s cell with a shuffling, reluctant gait. It was nearly as damp inside the prison as outside, and only now did Harry notice a biting chill start to set in, as his wet clothes began to wick away what little warmth there was within the stone walls. He absently rubbed at his arms, and Savage threw him an unhappy grin. 

“That’ll be the Dementor they keep around for those gettin’ the Kiss.” He jerked his chin to indicate a heavily warded door made of iron with rusted copper bracings and indecipherable runes etched around the jamb. “Just ‘ug the far wall, it’ll pass. They keep him bound up tight with fancy charms from what I seen, but _cor_ the chill, can’t do nothin’ ‘bout it.”

“Chocolate,” Harry muttered, plastering himself against the eastern wall.

“Huh?”

“Chocolate—bring some in to nibble on. It helps. Not much, but it helps.”

Savage’s bushy brow beetled, but he nodded. 

They continued on in silence, down a long hallway that led to a block kept separate from the main hall, where Harry could hear loud, insistent banging and whooping as the inmates made every effort to drive their gaolers batty with incessant racket. Azkaban was several orders of magnitude more lively now that the Dementor guards had been exchanged for the unfortunate Aurors who had drawn the short straw and earned themselves a relaxing island getaway. More lively, yet somehow just as depressing. At least, Harry assumed it must be; he shuddered to imagine just how much more desolate, more crushing this place had been when Sirius had been locked up here.

As Savage had promised, feeling slowly began to return to Harry’s extremities once they’d distanced themselves from the Kissing Chamber, and he felt his dark thoughts scatter to the four winds when he caught a flash of white through the tiny barred window cut into the door through which Savage was now shouldering.

Malfoy was sitting upright on what Harry took to be his bed: a mean little camp bed that sagged beneath even his slight weight. He had his head thrown back against the pock-marked stone wall, eyes closed, and showed no reaction to Harry and Savage entering the block. His was the only occupied cell of the three on the block, but the stench was foul enough for ten, and Harry fought the urge to pinch his nose and breathe wholly through his mouth. He was meant to be a professional, and he certainly didn’t need Savage gleefully Owling the whole Auror brigade with tales of Harry Potter swooning between the twin assaults of a ravenous Dementor and _Eau de Azkaban_.

He tried to recall the last time he’d seen Malfoy—in person, and not in a clipping from the _Prophet_ or a mugshot—and failed. Had they even spoken two words since the end of the war? Certainly they walked in different circles, always had, but he didn’t think they’d traded words even at Malfoy’s trial. The first one, that was—when the Wizengamot had been rushing through the smaller fish in their eagerness to hand down sentences to the higher-ranking Death Eaters. Harry had been out of the country on assignment and missed the second one entirely. Perhaps it was for the best; if he’d been present, he might have leapt into the pit of Courtroom C and laid hands on Malfoy himself, saving him nine months of failed appeals and just putting him out of his misery there and then.

Savage pieced through the rusted keys on his ring until he found one that suited, then slid it into the equally rusted lock on Malfoy’s cell door. A string of runes around the keyhole glowed green briefly before fading away, and the door swung open with a grating screech.

Savage extended a hand with a mock bow. “He’s all yours, Auror Potter.”

Harry stepped through, keeping his eyes trained squarely on Malfoy just in case he thought to try something—but he didn’t move. Still wouldn’t even open his eyes to look at Harry or Savage, and Harry wondered if perhaps he was asleep—or unconscious. He knew the gaolers sometimes put the inmates under if they became unmanageable, or for transport, but he somehow found it difficult to imagine Malfoy fitting either of those conditions. Not in his present state. 

He was practically skin and bones, his cheekbones sharper than Harry remembered and exposed arms—Dark Mark tucked away from Harry’s line of sight—grossly knobby at the joints. His face was covered in splotches of grime, or else he was badly bruised, and his white-blond hair, so immaculately coiffed in Harry’s memories, now hung in lank, greasy locks the colour of old dishwater. Perhaps the Azkaban rags had fit him when he’d first arrived, but by now, they dwarfed him, at least three sizes too large for what was now a dangerously slight frame.

Harry might have objected to Malfoy’s state, had he thought it would do any good. At this point, there was nothing to be done for it, and even if Harry’d been of a mind to pull a Hermione and raise a stink about prisoner rights, he wasn’t about to do so for the sake of Draco Malfoy’s literal soul.

“Have fun,” Savage said, and yanked the door shut once Harry had stepped fully over the threshold. It hit the jamb with a rattling _clang_ followed by the sound of several hidden magical mechanisms latching.

Harry whirled around, his hands on the cold iron bars. “What the—you’re _leaving_ me here?”

Savage picked his teeth with a toothpick, snorting derisively. “What, surely y’ain’t scared?” He jerked his thick chin in Malfoy’s direction. “Not like there’s much he can do to you. ‘Cept maybe shit on you. And if yer gettin’ close enough to his dirty arse to risk _that_, well it’s none of my business is it?” He banged on the bars, and Harry jerked back. “Thirty minutes now, Potter. I’ll be back for you when yer time’s up.”

And then he was gone, and Harry was stuck there, locked in an Azkaban cell with Draco Malfoy, convicted Neo-Death Eater.

He wasn’t scared. He _wasn’t_. He was only surprised they’d been given privacy. But then, Harry’d already been practically turned inside out as Savage searched him for contraband, and his wand was sitting out in the lobby, so he wasn’t going to be breaking Malfoy out any time soon, not with his pitiful proficiency with wandless magic. Likewise, there wasn’t much Malfoy could do to _him_ now either, except perhaps throw a punch. And seeing as Harry had earned top marks in his hand-to-hand combat module, he was pretty confident he could take Malfoy in a brawl, especially given the state of the git. 

Still, it didn’t seem entirely wise for them to leave a condemned man—the most desperate sort—alone with one of the few people who might be familiar enough with the workings of Auror-run Azkaban to be able to break him—

“I confess, I’m surprised you came.”

Harry gave an embarrassing jolt.

For whatever reason, he’d been expecting a rasp. Something raw and exhausted—a voice that fit the pitiful shell Malfoy had been reduced to. He’d expected something broken, something barely human.

He hadn’t been expecting _Malfoy_. That grating, sarcastic drawl he’d been honing since First Year, fashioned into a fine cutting implement that knew just where to poke and press and _stab_ for maximum irritation, how to peel back the skin and wriggle under it and burrow until it struck a nerve.

Harry took a breath, swallowed, then turned, leaning back against the bars as he crossed his arms over his chest. Why hadn’t he worn his robes? He looked so much more professional in red; Ginny had called him _dashing_ even, though he thought perhaps she might have been taking the piss out of him. Instead, he was one threadbare sweater away from standing there in his pyjamas, and it left him feeling unnervingly off-balanced. Fucking summertime in the North Sea. Fucking global warming.

“That makes two of us,” he said. Malfoy still had his head tilted to the wall, but his eyes were open now, fixed squarely on the ceiling. Harry wondered when he’d get around to making eye contact, and then wondered further if he actually wanted that or not. He didn’t rightly know what he’d do if Malfoy’s eyes were as unchanged as his voice—maybe Azkaban hadn’t gotten to him after all. 

Harry shifted his weight and cocked his head, trying to affect a cool calm. “What am I doing here?”

“Well,” Malfoy said, sighing dramatically, “All the people I like are either dead, in hiding, or in prison themselves, and of all the people I _don’t_ like, I pegged you as the most likely to actually come. Given you were always sticking your nose into my business.” He swivelled his gaze down from the ceiling with a roll of his head, letting it loll forward as he fixed Harry in his sights. Harry reminded himself not to swallow. “Though I suppose Weasley might have come too, if only to ask if he might be allowed to stay and watch.”

His voice took on a bitter edge, which helped set Harry back to rights, and he straightened up, stepping away from the bars to within striking distance. There, he wasn’t scared. “You can’t think there’s anything I can do to stay the Kiss, right? I mean, even if I wanted to—” He was quick to add, “—and I don’t, it’s beyond my pull.”

Draco cocked his head, grey eyes obscenely bright for the circumstances. “I thought saving people was your _thing_.” Before Harry could muster a retort, though, he continued with a bored wave, “But no, I’m well aware of that. It’s only that they told me I could have a final visitor, anyone I wanted, and they’d try to make it happen.” He shrugged, somehow still elegant in motheaten rags. “I thought to make them work for it.”

Harry scoffed, and suddenly they were fifteen again. “You asked for me just to _piss off the Ministry_?”

“Only half—I hoped to piss _you _off as well.” He lifted his brows hopefully. “Did it work? Dear old Gawain’s so stuffy and formal, it’s hard to get a read on him. You’re an open book at least, which I have always appreciated.”

Perhaps it was for the best his wand was back with Savage, or else Harry’d likely find himself written up for prisoner abuse before the half hour was up. He clenched his fist—to remind himself not to use it to bash Malfoy’s brains in. “You’re a fucking piece of work, Malfoy.”

“And time has not dulled that patented Potter charm. Know that it will be while meditating on fisticuffs that might have been that I shall meet my hereafter on the morrow.” He nodded to Harry’s hands. “Unless you’d like to have a go? Last chance,” he sing-songed, waggling his brows in childish temptation.

And Harry unclenched his fists, shoulders sagging, because this was wrong—wrong, because it was _too_ right. 

Malfoy was being entirely too…_himself_. Too blithe, too bright, and too keen. A bag of tricks, meant to charm and disarm. Fucking _Slytherins_. 

Harry frowned, and put away his temper. “You’re awfully blasé about your own impending mortality.”

“Now hold on—where did you learn words like _blasé_ and _impending_ and _mortality_? That’s N.E.W.T.-level English.” His brows lifted, and he nodded sagely. “I must say I’m impressed.”

“Cut the shit.”

“_That’s_ more like it.”

Harry stepped in close, until he was standing in the cradle of Malfoy’s knobby knees, and Malfoy had to crane his neck back to keep looking at him. “What am I doing here?” he asked again, softer and serious, and from this distance, he could see the telling little twitch right at the corner of Malfoy’s eyes, the flare of his nostrils, the bob of his throat.

“Well I wanted to see you, obviously.” His voice was still light and lilting, that frustrating haughty tease, but Harry knew to look for the tremor now, and he heard it like a fucking _clarion_.

“You wanted to see me? Or—you wanted _me_ to see _you_?” He took one step back, so he could take in the whole of Malfoy’s pitiful state. “I’m here to—what? Bear witness? See you, see you like _this_, so someone remembers you? So you don’t just—” He snapped his fingers. “Vanish?”

Malfoy inclined his head, a half-nod. “Well, Father is dead, perhaps Mother too—and I’m the last of my line. As you say, it’ll only be too easy for me to fade from memory. I haven’t even bothered to fashion a shiv and carve my name into one of these bricks like the rest of the refuse that’s passed through this block.” He leaned back, bracing his arms behind himself. Even now, he still managed to contort himself so Harry could only see the edges of the Dark Mark peeking out. “But having _the_ Harry Potter remember me… Now that’s a legacy I could be proud of.” He smiled, thin-lipped. “If only my father could hear about this.”

Harry laughed and stepped away, because he couldn’t just stand there. He began to pace, Malfoy’s nervous glee entirely too catching. “That _is_ it, then. You’re going to make me carry this around with me, for the rest of my life—for _ego_? Knowing I was your last request—the last person to give enough of a shit to go out of their way to _see you_?”

“Come now, you could always Obliviate yourself.” Harry stopped his pacing and looked at Malfoy—who only grinned in return, toothy, his upper lip curling. “But you won’t. You make yourself remember _everything_ you’ve ever done, or had done to you. That’s what they make Pensieves for, you know.” Malfoy sighed. “But you wouldn’t be our glorious Saviour if you weren’t carrying around the weight of the world on your strapping sanctimonious shoulders.”

“Maybe I’d make an exception, just for you.”

“Be still my beating heart.”

Harry held his eyes for a long moment. He wouldn’t be the one to blink, not this time. If he had to carry this memory with him, out the front gates of Azkaban, then he’d have it include _this_: Harry looking at Malfoy, and Malfoy looking back at him, and then _flinching_. 

Malfoy sniffed, then seemed to find the fraying ticking holding the thin little mattress beneath his arse terribly interesting, and Harry allowed himself to breathe again. Malfoy ran his tongue over his teeth, seeming to consider his words carefully, cautiously, and then: “I did have a reason.”

“A reason?”

“For asking for you. Beyond the obvious desire to fuck with you. That was just a special personal treat; I thought I deserved one, considering.” Harry did not agree, but he let Malfoy hang on to his delusions.

Harry waited a beat, and when Malfoy did not continue, he prompted, “And that was?”

“I had a question that needed answering, and only you could give me a proper response.”

Harry wanted to scream. “Listen, you’ve got about _twenty minutes_ now before Savage comes back and I fuck off for good, so if you _actually_ have a que—”

And then Malfoy sat up, very straight, fingers clenched at the edge of his camp bed. “All right. Just. Shut up. Does it hurt?”

He spoke very quickly, and the lilt was well and gone, crushed to pieces as Malfoy’s question ran roughshod over the mask he’d quickly and quietly doffed. 

Harry seized up, to keep himself from stepping back, as if Malfoy had rushed him physically. “What?” He blinked, several times. “Don’t—does what hurt?”

“The—” Malfoy cut himself off, licked his lips, and closed his eyes as he took a deep breath. And then Harry knew what he was going to ask, before he did: “Dying. Does it hurt?” Once it was out, over his lips, Malfoy seemed to recover, and quickly followed up with words that sounded to Harry’s ears rather rote and practised. Like Malfoy had rehearsed this moment and finally received his cue. “…I know you’ve done it before. Mother told me, she told me _everything_. So don’t try to tell me you didn’t. I don’t care how you came back, so don’t think I’m trying to—” He bit his lip. Harry doubted that had been part of the planned speech. “I only wanted to know about the dying.” He blinked slowly, then lifted his head to look at Harry. Now _those_ were the eyes of a condemned man, and Harry hated it wasn’t half as satisfying a sight as he’d thought it would be. “I’ll have it straight, if it’s all the same to you. Pray don’t sugarcoat it. I’d rather not be surprised when—you know.”

Harry balked. Malfoy was looking up at him with a desperate kind of hope that turned his stomach, and part of him wanted to pull semantics—to object that Malfoy wasn’t going to _die_. But he did at least recognise how ridiculous that stance was; he’d be as good as dead, wouldn’t he? Without a soul, Malfoy’s body would be but a husk, and could it even survive at that point? Or would it be disposed of? Once the Kiss had been delivered, would the remains just be chucked into the North Sea and picked apart by lobalugs?

“…It won’t be the same,” he settled on, and at Malfoy’s crinkled brow, he went on, because Malfoy had begged him not to sugarcoat it, “It’s—the Kiss, it’s not… What happened to me, and what’ll happen to you—they’re different. They just are. I can’t tell you what’ll happen, because I don’t know. I don’t think anyone does.” And maybe that last bit had been unnecessarily cruel, because the stricken expression on Malfoy’s face told Harry that he’d been relying rather a lot, mentally and emotionally, on Harry telling him that _no_, it didn’t hurt, and _yes_, there was bliss and relief and loved ones waiting in the beyond, or at least blessed quiet before the consciousness was snuffed out. 

And maybe there was—Harry could still recall, though less clearly now, meeting Dumbledore in that strange dream-like version of King’s Cross Station those years back. 

But it wouldn’t be like that for Malfoy, not as far as he could imagine. While Sirius and Remus and his parents had told Harry that dying was easy, he couldn’t tell Malfoy the same, not when that sort of death wasn’t what Malfoy would face in twelve hours’ time. It wasn’t a Killing Curse waiting for him, though Harry reckoned that sort of quick, clean ending might be more of a mercy than the rending of soul from body.

Malfoy seemed to wilt, though in a very Malfoy way, hunching forward with his elbows resting on his knees so his knobby back curved in a sharp arc under the ratty prison rags. “Did you know they deliver the Kiss just before sunrise? Right before the break of dawn?” He looked up at Harry, lips stretched into a smile that was more than a little mad. “So the world can keep turning apace, starting bright and early with one less worthless bit of scum marring its pristine surface.” He released a sniffling huff of forced laughter. “Fucked up, don’t you think? Even for this place.”

It was, Harry thought, and then hated that he was being forced to agree with Malfoy on something. He felt something snap inside—the last of his patience, he thought, though he hadn’t realised he’d been practising any in here—and before he could stop himself, he was biting out in sharp, unkind tones, “Perhaps if you were so concerned about the state of your soul and what’s to become of it, you shouldn’t have let it come to this.” Malfoy’s smile wavered just a tic, but he seemed to bite the inside of his cheek, keen to keep it in place, and this somehow made Harry _angrier_. He shook a finger in Malfoy’s face, like a parent scolding their naughty child. “You’re here because of your own damn actions, your _own_ decisions—_you_ put yourself here, so don’t expect an ounce of sympathy from me, Malfoy. Not _now._”

Malfoy’s eyes darkened, but he made no move to defend himself, so Harry trundled on, working himself up into a fierce lather.

“You had _every chance_—_every_ chance to change things, to stop this train before it jumped the tracks. And you may not want to hear this, you may not even believe me, but I’m going to tell you, because I want you to know exactly how _royally_ you fucked yourself: I was pulling for you. I swear to _god_ I was, every step of the way. I wanted you to be _better_. And I would have stepped in, I would have done whatever I could—_whatever_ I could—if you’d shown an ounce of sodding courage and _asked_. If you’d put aside your fucking pride, shown a genuine desire to right yourself, I don’t know that there’s anything I wouldn’t have done, if I’d had the power.” He swallowed thickly, throat parched. He was the one who sounded like he’d spent three years in Azkaban now. He drew himself up tall, so that he could stare down at Malfoy, and really _really_ rub it in, because _god _he was furious. Didn’t know if he’d ever been this wound up. It was exhausting. “You curl your lip and wrinkle your nose and sneer and call me _Saviour_, yet you only seek my help at the eleventh hour. _That’s_ what’s fucked up, Malfoy.”

_“Oi!”_ Savage roared, bursting through the door to the cell block with enough force to rattle it from its hinges. His beady eyes bounced between Harry and Malfoy like a ping-ping ball. “What the blazes are you yammerin’ on about in here, Potter? He try and pull some shit?” He drew out a long length of wood, rather thicker than a wand, and smacked his palm with it in threat. “You’d think he’d go nice and quiet, being one of them respectable Purebloods and all, but I guess looks can be deceivin’.” He rapped the wooden rod on the bars of Malfoy’s cell in an angry rhythm. “On your fuckin’ feet you scumba—”

“We’re fine,” Harry said, short and sharp, and he fixed Savage with a look just as cutting. Savage left off with the banging. “We’ve still got ten minutes left, by my count.”

“His count’s wrong, Savage,” Malfoy said, smoothly rising to his feet. “In fact, I think our time’s just about up.”

Harry whirled back around, brows crinkling. “Wha—it’s _not_—”

“You heard him, Potter,” Savage said, stabbing his key into the lock and yanking open the cell door again. He hooked a finger into Harry’s collar and dragged him out, then slammed the door shut in Malfoy’s face. “There. You’re a free man once more.”

Harry pressed himself against the bars, clinging to the cold, raw iron. He tried to summon up the fury again, tried to hold it and handle it, but it was quickly being subsumed by a panicked desperation. “We aren’t finished.” He hated how it came out almost in a _whine_.

Malfoy took three slow, measured steps forward, close enough that if Harry wanted, he could reach through and throttle him. “No more swooping down to save me on a broomstick then, eh, Potter?” He held Harry’s gaze for only a heartbeat, then flicked his attention back to Savage. “Thanks, Archie. You can escort Auror Potter back to the entrance now. Mind the Dementor on your way back; Potter’s allergic.”

Savage rapped the bars again for good measure. “Told you to stop fucking calling me by my given name, Malfoy.”

Malfoy waved him away, returning to his camp bed and settling back down. “Apologies, Archie. I’ll try to remember.”

Harry opened his mouth, a treacherous apology on his lips, but blessedly before it could escape, Savage grabbed his bicep in one meaty fist and jerked him towards the door. “C’mon, Potter. Time’s up.”

“Wait—I just need—” He just needed to reach in there and shake some sense into Malfoy, to see he wasn’t already dead, that he was still alive _right now_, because his eyes and his voice were fading fast. He’d kept those last true bits of himself locked away, safe where Azkaban couldn’t touch them, until he saw Harry, and now that’d been done, Malfoy was spent. Harry nearly wrenched his neck, twisting to try and see—

Malfoy had one hand raised, waving his fingers as Savage shoved Harry back into the corridor, and as the heavy door closed behind them, he only just caught Malfoy’s final, “Have a nice life, Potter.”

And fuck. Now Malfoy was always going to have had the last word with him. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to do a lot of things, actually, a million different emotions warring inside of him, so he wound up doing nothing and just let himself be chivvied along by Savage.

Savage was muttering to himself, a string of uncharitable comments targeted at Malfoy narrating the long plod back to the entrance, but Harry wasn’t listening. He was too busy trying not to drown in the wave of fresh, crushing guilt washing over him, because had that outburst been called for in _any_ way? Sure, every word he’d said was true, and he didn’t actually regret any of it, not really, but there was no sense in ruining a man’s final night on earth, was there? Malfoy had asked him a question, a very revealing one, and Harry had told him to go fuck himself. He’d been Malfoy’s last request. Bet he regretted _that_ now. 

Harry wanted to get out of here. Away from this place full of memories new and old he’d never be rid of—_fuck a Pensieve_—and depression and despair and, all right, _death_. He couldn’t help Malfoy anymore, so he just wanted to be _away_.

Once back in the entryway, he began the arduous task of layering up again, pulling on his cagoule and scarf and coat. The blasted overtrousers he just _Incendio_’d as soon as Savage returned his wand to him, stubbing his toe in the pile of ash left behind. 

“When will the boat return?” he asked, frowning at the heavy, bolted double doors marking the entrance. A portrait of Kingsley hung just off to the side, so that anyone who entered had to do so under the watchful eye of the Minister. Portrait Kingsley gave Harry a little wave when they met eyes. 

“Eh, not ‘til after dark, I expect.” Savage was already back in his cubicle, tapping his wand against the side of the Wireless until the volume was high enough for his liking. “May as well settle in. There’s a rerun coming up on the hour of last week’s Harpies game I’ve been hoping to catch, if you’re interested.”

“The Harpies swept the Arrows by over 200 points. Cotton knocked down one of the goal posts when he smashed into it, and that was pretty much the end of the match.”

Savage gave a sharp protest. “What the fuck, Potter? I just told you I hadn’t listened to the bloody thing yet, didn’t I?” He slapped his desk with a rolled up copy of the _Prophet_—the previous day’s, Harry gathered, as Malfoy’s pinched, sallow face stared back at him from the topsheet beneath the words_ Malfoy Heir Gets Good-night Kiss_. “You’re a fucking jackarse, you know that? I shoulda let Malfoy have at you.”

“Mm,” Harry said, noncommittal. “Can I Apparate back to the mainland from here, do you think?”

“Not from the grounds,” Savage grunted, shaking open the paper and raking it with a squinty gaze until he found the Wireless on-air listings. “Anti-Apparition wards. Have to head down to the dock. Past the third post and you’ll be clear.” Harry gave a curt _Ta_ and started for the doors. “But I’d wait for the boat, if I was you. It’s a trip and a half to the nearest waypoint, and yer liable to overtax yer core tryin’ to make a jump that far.”

“Then I’ll overtax my core. Enjoy the game, Savage.” He turned his back on the fingers Savage showed him, bracing his hands against the double doors and giving a great shove as he stepped out of Malfoy’s life for the last time.

* * *

It was well past midnight by the time Harry made it back to his flat; he’d wound up overtaxing himself Apparating to the mainland, as Savage had warned, and had wasted nearly two hours in the sleepy little dockside village trying to track down an Apothecary who could put him back to rights in order to make the remaining series of jumps back to London, as all the Portkeys had already been booked for the evening. 

He toed off his still-waterlogged boots in the entryway and peeled his socks from his feet, tossing them haphazardly into the laundry basket to deal with in the morning. The lamps sputtered weakly overhead, even when he hit them with an extra tap of his wand, and he made a mental note to get the landlord to look into resetting the charms. He probably could have had Hermione tend to them in two shakes, but he was paying three times the room’s actual value in rent, just so he could live a walkable distance from the Ministry, and he intended to get his money’s worth. 

Besides, if he asked her, she’d only give him one of those _looks_ and ask him for the tenth time why he didn’t just move back into Grimmauld Place, as surely Andromeda and Teddy would love to have him, and didn’t it get lonely living in such a decrepit little hovel, at which point Harry would take offence at the _decrepit little hovel_ comment, even though it was spot-on, and then Ron would remind him they had a spare room at _their_ place, and Harry would spend the rest of his lunch break trying to explain to them that he lived in his ‘decrepit little hovel’ all by his lonesome because he _wanted_ to live there all by his lonesome, and _they_ would spend the rest of his lunch break trying to convince him that no, he didn’t, he _couldn’t_, and living on his own wasn’t healthy for him.

Well, six years in and he was still kicking, so it clearly wasn’t hurting him too badly either.

With no real ties to the house and seeing a greater need in his godson, he’d gifted the keys to Grimmauld Place to Andromeda and Teddy. She’d objected at first—they didn’t need all that space for one, and she didn’t have the _best_ memories associated with the place for another—and then pleaded with him to stay on, as there was more than enough room and he’d be able to spend so much more time with Teddy that way, but Harry had (he hoped gracefully) declined the offer, professing a desire to strike out on his own, starting by renting his very first flat. 

“I’ve been living elbows-to-ears in a dormitory for the better part of the past eight years,” he’d said with a wry smile. “It’ll be nice to have a little peace and quiet for once—though don’t think I won’t be around to harass the two of you so often you’ll be sick of me before the month’s out.”

Andromeda had let the matter go in the end, and Harry had held up his side of the bargain by joining them for dinner at least every Saturday. She’d started subletting some of the rooms recently, and Harry thought that between Kreacher and her boarders, she wasn’t wanting for company. Teddy, too, seemed no worse off for all the attention, with his grandmother and godfather and all the interesting sorts of folk who passed through Grimmauld Place. He was growing like a weed, sporting a new hairstyle and colour every time Harry saw him.

And it hadn’t been a lie, Harry saying he’d wanted to exercise a bit of independence and enjoy some solitude after years of dormitory living. He _did_ want those things: living by himself, at his own whims, he could be sure that whatever he did inside the walls of his ‘decrepit little hovel’ was what _he_ wanted to do, and not because someone else had asked him—or manipulated him, consciously or otherwise—into doing those things. It was always just—so much _work_, being around others these days. These _years_, rather. Having to pretend he’d moved on, because everyone else had, and if you hadn’t gotten your life sorted, back on track, after seven years, then there was something wrong with you. He didn’t need that sort of instability rubbing off on Teddy. The kid would have enough of a rough go in his life without being forced to take a front-row seat to Harry spinning his metaphorical wheels while he waited for things to finally make sense again.

No, he was handling things. Handling things just fine. Except for the lamps. That, he’d have to get the landlord to tend to.

After peeling off the last of the unnecessary outerwear and zapping himself with a Freshening Charm because the neighbours complained when he used the shower past ten, Harry shuffled to his kitchenette and rummaged around in the coolbox in search of dinner. 

He eventually decided on the remains of takeaway Indian from two nights back—no sense letting good chicken tikka go to waste—and dumped the contents into a shallow bowl before hitting it with a Warming Charm. Molly would probably have frowned on the shortcut and reminded him food never tasted half as good when you used too much magic in the making, but Harry was too tired to care. Besides, with Kreacher back at Grimmauld Place, taking care of Andromeda and Teddy (and probably happier for it, being able to serve someone from the Black line), Harry wound up half-arsing his meals more often than not and had reached a point where he didn’t so much notice his food tasted a bit cardboard-y.

It was tasting particularly cardboard-y tonight, though, and barely five bites in, Harry told his stomach he was finished, Vanished the leftovers of the leftovers, and threw himself into his bed, hoping to snatch a few winks before he was expected back at his desk the next morning. He probably could have asked Robards for a half-day, he thought, especially considering he’d had to travel to the North Sea and back, but half the Department still thought he’d earned his position wholly on account of that little favour he’d done the whole of the wizarding world back during the war, and seven years out it somehow still grated. Showing up bright and early, without missing a beat, was what you did when you’d moved on, he reminded himself, and closed his eyes.

But his mind continued to whir, full-tilt, and in the dark, every time he could just feel himself drifting off, Harry would find himself back in Azkaban, staring at Malfoy leaned back against the wall of his cell, the long white column of his throat exposed, like he was just waiting for Harry to wrap his hands around it and put him out of his misery.

That got old rather quickly, and Harry threw off his duvet and padded back into the kitchen, putting on the kettle to brew himself a cup of chamomile. With mug in hand, he stepped out onto his little balcony, quite the nicest place in the whole flat, and sat down to sip and wait and watch the sun rise.

It was the least, last thing he could do for Malfoy, to witness this moment that Malfoy never would again, and he told himself that the twinge he felt in his chest right before dawn broke was only his imagination, or perhaps indigestion from the chicken tikka that had gone off.

=====

He dragged himself to work the next day and spent an agonisingly slow morning buried under paperwork, wrapping up the final bits of his most recent case, which he’d had to put off on account of his impromptu jaunt out to Azkaban the day before. 

He was still waiting for the Potions Analysts to get back to him with the diagnostics concerning a residue Harry’s team had found at a crime scene. The stuff had had the colour and consistency of an accelerant detected at a few other incidents the Department had been managing in recent weeks, but the Potions Analysts had demanded they be allowed to do their job and seemed utterly bereft of the urgency the Aurors held. What was it about Harry, he wondered, that drove Potioneers to make his life a living hell? He sincerely doubted the Analysts just hated him on account of his resemblance to his father.

At lunch, Hermione descended from her tower up on Level 1, and Ron swung by on break from the shop, clapping him firmly on the back with a grin when Harry stepped into the canteen. Hermione was already at his side, pressing a card into Harry’s hands that read _You’re halfway to your mid-life crisis, Old Boy!_ “A birthday card, from my parents,” she explained. “Since they won’t be attending the to-do at the Burrow this weekend.”

Bloody hell, he’d forgotten his own birthday.

“Bloody hell, he’s forgotten his own birthday!” Ron laughed, clapping him on the back again. “C’mon, mate. It’s only twenty-five. Way too young for that business yet!”

“I didn’t forget it,” Harry protested. “I just—didn’t remember it. Right away. Anyway, let’s grab a table, yeah?”

Ron mouthed _He forgot it _to Hermione, then quickly slipped out of reach when Harry raised a hand at him in threat. 

They secured a table near the bay of windows at the back of the canteen, through which could be seen the crowds bustling about the Atrium in a colourful, dazzling display of humanity. It was an entirely different sort of liveliness from the rowdy Azkaban cell blocks, but Harry felt compelled to sit with his back to it all the same.

“Well I hope you haven’t ‘not remembered’ your party this weekend,” Hermione said, delicately peeling the wrapper from the sandwich she’d just bought. “Molly’s pulling out all the stops.”

“Yeah,” Ron said, one arm thrown casually over the back of Hermione’s chair. “You’d think you were being coronated. Don’t think she was half this keen at our wedding, even.” Hermione gave him a fond little pinch, and he recoiled dramatically, as if mortally wounded. “Spousal abuse!” he cried, snorting when Hermione rushed to cover his mouth, her cheeks dark with mortification as her eyes darted around the canteen to see if they’d been overheard.

“You shouldn’t joke about that sort of thing, you know,” she admonished. “Especially not _here_.”

“Oh right, of course not, where was my head?” He added as an aside to Harry, “Might interfere with her _campaign_.”

Harry brightened with interest. “Wait—so you’re going to do it? You’re going to run?”

“_No_,” Hermione said, giving Ron a serious look. “I mean, I haven’t made up my mind yet, is all. I’m still weighing the decision.”

“What _decision_?” Ron said, the not-so-subtle whine in his tone suggesting they had had this conversation on several occasions already. “It’s a no-brainer, love!”

“Perhaps for someone with _no brain_. _Love_.” She straightened up in her seat, giving a sniff. “I’m just not entirely sure it’s _appropriate_ for someone in my position to run for one of the elected Wizengamot seats.”

“Appropriate? Kingsley’s the one who suggested it in the first place!”

“Which is _precisely_ why some might deem it _in_appropriate_._” Hermione turned to Harry, evidently seeking his support. “I mean, I’m Senior Undersecretary, and I’m only twenty-five. I worry it might seem like…well, like Kingsley’s groomed me for the position, so that I can work as an arm for the Minister…”

“I hate to break it to you,” Harry said, “But he kind of _has_.” Her brows knit in offence, and Harry hastened to add, “In a good way, though! I mean, he knows you’re the best person for the position you’re in now, and he’s doing what he can to let others see that too, by trying to give you more responsibility. It’s _Kingsley_. He’s seen you in action, and he just wants everyone else to see it now as well. Plus—” He patted her hand with a smile. “You’ve got too many morals to _let_ him use you as his arm on the Wizengamot, even if he wanted to do so. He has to know that.”

She frowned in thought. “…So you think I should run, too?”

“I think you should do what you want to do.”

“She’s really good at that,” Ron said, waggling his brows, and Hermione leaned into him, throwing an elbow.

“Why are we even discussing this on Harry’s birthday? We should be celebrating _him_.” She turned back to Harry, breezily changing the subject. “Did you have a chance to look over the menu I Owled you on Friday? Molly’s being very particular.”

“_Particular_ isn’t the word I’d use…” Ron said.

“Oh.” Harry winced. “No, sorry, it completely slipped my mind. I was travelling all day yesterday, because of…well, the thing.”

“Ah…” Hermione said, and Ron suddenly had no clever rejoinders. She cleared her throat softly. “How, er…how was it?”

She posed the question with polite curiosity, but he could feel the both of them watching him carefully. He knew they were morbidly curious—especially Ron—about whether or not Malfoy was actually dead (or Kissed at least) and doubtlessly wondered why he’d asked to see Harry. He couldn’t blame them, not after everything, but he found himself strangely protective of what had probably been Malfoy’s last real human interaction.

Harry tapped his fork against his plate, spreading his peas around absently. “Lovely this time of year, actually. Did you know you don’t need three layers of clothes to stave off the cold when it’s only fifteen degrees at worst? The North Sea’s quite temperate in the summer.”

“Well it was good of you to go,” Hermione said diplomatically. “I hope there was…well, some closure.”

On whose part, Harry wondered.

Really, they both could probably have used some, and he didn’t think they’d either of them gotten it.

Malfoy had deserved everything he’d gotten and more—that Harry firmly believed—but Harry hadn’t been lying when he’d told Malfoy (_shouted_ at him) that he’d been pulling for him. That he’d wanted so much _more_ for him.

Life had not been kind to Malfoy since the war, but he’d had his chances. A half dozen of them, by Harry’s count, and he’d squandered each and every one of them, for reasons that entirely escaped Harry.

He’d been tried and convicted in the post-war trials, like everyone with a Mark on their arm, but in light of his age and the fact he hadn’t participated in the Battle of Hogwarts—at least not that anyone had seen, and Harry opted to keep his mouth shut about things people _hadn’t_ seen—he’d been granted a reduced sentence of three years’ community service. The first of these would be served at Hogwarts as he returned alongside a number of others, including Harry, whose final year of education had been stolen from them by Voldemort’s reign of terror. 

But then, once cut loose at the end of Eighth Year, Malfoy had gone ghost, fleeing England for the Continent, where rumour held his Mother had retired following the death of her husband. Lucius Malfoy’s murder by another Azkaban inmate on Christmas Eve, nearly eight months after the war, had been discussed in the _Prophet_ in lurid detail, along with an accounting of every shady business dealing he and his family had been involved in over the past twenty years. The murder had been all anyone had been interested in for nearly a week, and there’d even been talk—just talk, but still—that perhaps the other two Malfoys hadn’t paid a high enough price for their complicity in Lucius’s crimes. Harry couldn’t blame Narcissa for wanting to get away from it all.

But he sure as hell could blame Malfoy, who promptly became a wanted fugitive for violating his ban on international travel.

They’d tracked him down, of course. Not Harry, mind—not even British Aurors. A helpful tip from a local had led an international squadron of Aurors to find him doing manual labour, working as a field hand at an elf-wine vineyard in northern Italy. Draco Malfoy—_digging drainage ditches_. Harry had wanted to laugh when he’d read the report. Instead, he’d only been able to muster seething fury and rank disappointment, slamming his fist so hard on his cramped desk in the middle of the DMLE bullpen he’d knocked his Order of Merlin off its stand.

And right around then things had gotten _truly_ fucked, when a pair of dirty Aurors had helped Malfoy escape from custody while he was being transported back to England. The break had turned out to have been orchestrated by the Neo-Death Eaters, an organisation comprising those few dark sorts who still clung to Voldemort’s and Grindelwald’s ideals, carrying out their dead masters’ orders in grotesquely brutal and distressingly public ways. They’d been implicated in several high-profile violent crimes over the past half-decade, including the incident that had ultimately earned Malfoy his Kiss: an assassination attempt on Arthur Weasley that had resulted in twenty-seven casualties and three fatalities.

Arthur had survived; any pity Harry might have had for Malfoy up to that point had not.

So why then, Harry was left wondering, could he not shake the nagging _guilt_ churning in his stomach and making his birthday lunch most unpleasant?

Perhaps it was not because Malfoy had wasted all his chances at redemption—but because _Harry_ had wasted all his chances to _help_. 

Not that Malfoy had really deserved it, but Harry hated leaving a job unfinished, and it would have been so easy to set Malfoy’s life to rights, he thought, if he’d bothered to try and do so. Malfoy was never going to _ask_ Harry for help, this he had known. But that simply meant Harry should have given him no choice—when it was the difference between living and dying, you didn’t _get_ that luxury.

But Harry had been a mess in Eighth Year. All of them had been, really, and Harry had been too caught up with trying to put his own life back into some semblance of order to worry about sorting out pasty-faced pricks who’d as soon bite his hand as accept it. Malfoy was ever so far down on his list of people to reach out to, and between Ron’s grief over Fred’s passing and Hermione’s initially disastrous attempts to restore her parents’ memories and Ginny and him never quite finding their rhythm again, Harry would’ve been hard pressed to give Malfoy a passing thought, much less a kind word or hand up. 

Still, Ron had mourned and moved on, and Hermione’s parents only spoke with Australian accents on rare occasion, and while Harry and Ginny would never more be _Harry and Ginny_, they were friends again. 

He still caught himself, at odd moments, wondering what might have been—but they were just wonderings. Not regrets, not really. They left him feeling a little warm, a little sad, and a tiny bit relieved as well. He’d missed her _so much_ out there on the road, in the dark and isolated from all but Ron and Hermione, and then after…he’d found he was mostly missing _missing_ _her_. Missing the longing. Missing the feeling he got, in the pit of his stomach, thinking there was someone out there, wanting him and needing him, and how it fired his drive to do what needed to be done to get back to them.

Maybe he was the one with the complex now, building Ginny up into something she’d never been except inside his head. She’d wanted him, but not really needed him, and he maybe…maybe wanted someone who was a bit the opposite. Who needed him, but didn’t want him. He worked better with people like that, he thought. He felt like he had a _reason_ for being with people like that. He liked the challenge.

But no one needed him anymore, once the war ended. They needed healing, they needed closure—they didn’t need saving. And for Harry, it felt like he’d come to a sudden, slamming _stop_, leaving him disorientated and lost. Watching while everyone else around him began the arduous process of rebuilding, steadily passing Harry up. The war was over, but it was still wartime somehow, and Harry laboured under that same tense, oppressive atmosphere that had blanketed everything he’d known and loved. 

_Time heals all_, the Mind Healer had said, when Harry had gone in for his psychological evaluation after being accepted into the Auror program. It was a right crock. Time didn’t heal shit. It just dulled the pain. The wounds were still there, underneath the scars, and sometimes they went septic. 

Maybe that was what this was, this throbbing _ache_ for something that never could have been, because Malfoy hadn’t wanted it and Harry couldn’t have given it. 

But if he could have…_fuck_ he would have. Because Malfoy might have needed saving the most out of anyone who’d made it out of the war, and for Harry, it didn’t matter one whit whether he deserved it or not.

Harry realised he hadn’t spoken in a long beat, and swallowed. “…I feel like maybe I could have done more for him. Before—” he added quickly when Ron’s mien darkened in anger, “—before, I mean. Just—he’s the same age as us. _Was_. And it seems a waste is all.”

Hermione had her hand on Ron’s, squeezing gently—in comfort, or to remind him not to launch himself across the table to shake sense into Harry, it was difficult to tell. “It _was_ a waste,” she said, soft but admonishing. “But he lived his life as he saw fit. Made his choices. Had his chances and squandered them.”

“I know.”

“Yes, you know.” Her fond smile tightened. “But do you _know_?”

He rubbed at his face. “_Yes_. I do. I’m not—making excuses for him. I’m only saying.”

“Saying _what_?” Ron asked, tone flat and accusing.

“Saying that—” Harry made a noise in the back of his throat, frustration stuck in his craw. “That it was a fucking waste of a life he led. That’s it.” _Potential_. Squandered. Harry hated that sort of thing, and he felt the anger start to bubble up again. Anger at Ron for deliberately misunderstanding Harry’s feelings on the life and death of Draco Malfoy, at Malfoy for just being himself and feeling the need to sink to Harry’s low expectation of him, at himself for not being able to just fucking _let this go_. A dog with a bone, he was. “And maybe I should have made more of an effort to do something about that.”

“There it is,” Hermione sighed, and god, he was going to scream if she said— “He wasn’t your responsibility Harry. You can’t save everyone—and no one expects you to.”

_Me_, he didn’t say. _I expect me to_. He managed to keep from screaming, but only just barely. “It’s not about _saving him_. It’s about—” He wilted, exhausted. He’d gotten maybe a half hour of sleep altogether, and between the insomnia and the travelling and the tedious paperwork, he was shot. “…I dunno what it’s about, honest. It’s just me being me.”

“And him being him,” Hermione said cryptically, dipping her spoon into her fruit-bottom jelly.

“Told you you shouldn’t have gone,” Ron said, voice still a bit strained. Malfoy had always been a touchy subject with him, and the incident with Arthur had not improved his standing. “Should’ve just told Robards you were going, then had yourself a spa day instead.”

“I _had_ to go—I mean, it was his last request…” Now both Ron and Hermione were giving him _looks_. He groped for sounder reasoning than they were probably imagining. “I was hoping for…I dunno. A deathbed confession or something. The Neo-Death Eaters aren’t going anywhere just because one of their members got Kissed, you know. We’re still trying to make inroads into their organisation but we’re getting piss-all, and I couldn’t chance a valuable source having an eleventh-hour change of heart.”

Ron snorted. “_Heart_. Rich, that. Makes me wonder, though: maybe the Kiss didn’t actually work on him? I mean, you’ve gotta _have _a soul for them to suck it out, right?” He lifted his brows, glancing between Harry and Hermione expectantly. “Stands to reason.”

Hermione reached for her husband’s chocolate mousse. “You’re not going to eat that, are you?”

“Evidently not _now_…” He shook his head at Harry. “Why bother to diet, when she’ll just eat all the tasty things off my plate for me?”

Harry smiled at them, nudging his own mousse cup towards Hermione before she thought to make a move on it as well, but his thoughts were already miles away. Drifting on the high winds out over the unseasonably warm North Sea and wondering if dying had wound up hurting, in the end.


	2. Chapter 2

Malfoy’s death, like so many others’, did not irreparably disrupt Harry’s life. The world continued to turn apace without Draco Malfoy in it, and aside from idle intrusive thoughts—had Malfoy been buried in the little plot on Azkaban grounds, perhaps even alongside his father? Was Narcissa Malfoy still alive, and did she know what had become of her son?—Harry had largely managed to put that final strange confrontation between himself and the last of the Malfoy line to bed. He would never be able to be entirely rid of the memories—like Voldemort, Malfoy would continue to live on rent-free inside Harry’s head because again: fuck a Pensieve—but Harry was handling it, thank you very much. He’d managed to compartmentalise enough trauma to take down a dozen men over the years, so what was another nightmare or three in the grand scheme of things?

He poured out the remains of his coffee into the unfortunate potted plant by his desk, grimacing and smacking his lips. It tasted like someone had spiked the brew with Floo powder. At least Malfoy would never have to deal with three-day-old coffee grounds again. Not that he’d probably ever had to deal with them in the first place; if he’d partaken at home or Hogwarts, he’d likely had piping-hot fresh pots sitting ready in shiny silver carafes, and Harry doubted Azkaban served coffee of any quality, period.

He Banished his empty mug back to the breakroom, and off it zoomed, nearly colliding with a paper aeroplane memo that was arrowing right for Harry’s desk. He worried for a moment it might be a polite reminder from Hermione up on Level 1 that he really needed to sit down with Molly to sort out the menu for his party, because Saturday was only three days away now, before realising the memo was not the purple of Interdepartmental notes but the blue of Intraoffice ones.

He snatched at it when it drew within arm’s reach, quickly unfolding it and scanning for what he hoped to be the Potions Analyst Team’s long-awaited confirmation of his suspicions regarding the accelerant—but it was not from the lab. Instead, it bore the letterhead of Head Auror Robards: a summons, informing Harry that his presence would be expected in Conference Room C promptly at 11 AM. Harry reached into the pocket of his robes, rummaging about until he found the watch Mrs. Weasley had given him for his seventeenth: 10:47 AM. 

He hastily scooped up the papers scattered across his desk and slipped them into their folio, sending them soaring back into a cabinet with a flick of his wand. Robards was the sort who liked order in the office and wouldn’t have scheduled a meeting on such short notice unless he’d been forced to it. Harry’s heart began to pump double-time; he could smell an important mission on the air, which meant glorious distraction to take his mind off the likes of Malfoy and cardboard-flavoured chicken tikka and indeterminate birthday menus. That was one thing a career with the Aurors was certainly good for: he was never in want of a bit of skin-risking action to keep him on his toes. People still needed him, this way—and the instant gratification that came with seeing malevolent forces put away on account of his own hard work did his soul good.

He stepped out of his _Quietus_ed bubble into the bullpen proper, letting the comfortable drone of the office chatter wash over him, and bid his _hullo_s and _morning_s and _how’s it?_s as he made his way to the conference corridor, arrowing for the door at the end of the short hallway. 

It opened at his polite knock to reveal Robards—_Gawain_, the Malfoy inside Harry’s head crooned fondly—who bristled a gruff, “Early. I like it,” before extending his arm to invite Harry to take a seat.

They were not alone: already seated at the far end of the room were two strangers—though from their appearance, they clearly hailed from the Department of Mysteries. Unspeakables always unsettled Harry, with their hooded black robes and heavy Glamours that distorted their faces beyond the point of recognition. 

Robards took his own seat at the head of the table. “Thank you for joining us, Potter,” he said, and Harry nodded, as if he’d had a choice. “Unspeakables R and F have requested Auror security for a rendezvous this evening. Now, Auror Angelo usually handles these matters, but seeing as he’s still on medical leave waiting for the Healers to reattach his foot, I’m afraid we’re a bit short-handed. I understand you’re still waiting on the Potions Analysts to get back to you with their lab results?”

“Er, yes sir…” Unease curled in Harry’s gut.

“Then you can spare an afternoon to help out our colleagues.” 

Oh _bugger_. Fucked again by the glacial pace of the lab technicians.

Unoccupied Aurors were often placed on the security details of higher-level Ministry officials, but Harry had been fortunate enough thus far to have had missions of his own that took priority, sparing him the unenviable task of babysitting politicians. His luck appeared to have run out, though, and while shadowing an Unspeakable was bound to be at least a _little_ more exciting than doing so for an Undersecretary—with silent apology to Hermione—this was not shaping up to be the thrill ride Harry had hoped for.

Robards nodded to one of the Unspeakables. “Unspeakable R, if you’d like to explain the mission details to Potter?”

The Unspeakable turned to Harry. “Tʜᴇ ɪʟʟᴜsᴛʀɪᴏᴜs Aᴜʀᴏʀ Hᴀʀʀʏ Pᴏᴛᴛᴇʀ… A ᴘʟᴇᴀsᴜʀᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴇᴇᴛ ʏᴏᴜ. I ʜᴏᴘᴇ F ᴍᴀʏ ʀᴇʟʏ ᴏɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ɪɴᴠᴀʟᴜᴀʙʟᴇ sᴋɪʟʟs ᴛʜɪs ᴇᴠᴇɴɪɴɢ. Wᴇ ᴀᴘᴏʟᴏɢɪsᴇ ꜰᴏʀ sᴜᴄʜ ᴀɴ ᴀʙʀᴜᴘᴛ ʀᴇǫᴜᴇsᴛ ꜰᴏʀ ᴀɪᴅ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʜɪs ɪs…sᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴏꜰ ᴀɴ ᴜʀɢᴇɴᴛ ᴍᴀᴛᴛᴇʀ, ᴀɴᴅ I ꜰᴇᴀʀ ᴡᴇ ᴄᴀɴɴᴏᴛ ᴡᴀɪᴛ ꜰᴏʀ Aᴜʀᴏʀ Aɴɢᴇʟᴏ ᴛᴏ ʀᴇᴄᴏᴠᴇʀ ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴇᴊᴏɪɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʀᴀɴᴋs.”

Harry barely managed to suppress a shudder; he’d never get accustomed to the strange, wave-altered quality to Unspeakables’ voices, almost mechanical in nature. One thing was for certain: this lot took their privacy _very_ seriously. He pasted on his very best Harry Potter smile, full of charm and oozing confidence. “I’m happy to help in any way I can. Seeing to Unspeakable F’s security will be my top priority.” Who knew—perhaps this would be a mission to get the blood up after all?

“Indeed,” Robards assured them with a bluster that spoke more of pride in his Department than in Harry in particular. “Potter earned outstanding marks in his Combat modules and should be more than equal to the task of ensuring that Unspeakable F’s mission goes smoothly and safely. And of course you may rely on his absolute discretion.”

Unspeakable R seemed satisfied, though the complete lack of features or emotion in their voice made it difficult to be certain. They reached into their shapeless black robes and withdrew a business card, sliding it across the table to Harry. “Pʟᴇᴀsᴇ ʙᴇ ᴀᴛ ᴛʜɪs ʟᴏᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴘʀᴏᴍᴘᴛʟʏ ᴀᴛ 10 PM. _Pʀᴏᴍᴘᴛʟʏ_.” Harry thought the Unspeakable might be giving him a hard, meaningful look underneath their heavy Glamour. “Nᴏ ᴇᴀʀʟɪᴇʀ ᴏʀ ʟᴀᴛᴇʀ. Yᴏᴜ’ʀᴇ ᴇxᴘᴇᴄᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ Aᴘᴘᴀʀᴀᴛᴇ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴏᴛ.” Unspeakable R turned back to Robards. “Sᴛʀɪᴄᴛ ᴀᴅʜᴇʀᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴜsᴜᴀʟ ᴘʀᴏᴛᴏᴄᴏʟ ᴄᴏɴᴄᴇʀɴɪɴɢ Dᴇᴘᴀʀᴛᴍᴇɴᴛ ᴏꜰ Mʏsᴛᴇʀɪᴇs-ᴀᴅᴊᴀᴄᴇɴᴛ ᴀᴄᴛɪᴠɪᴛɪᴇs ᴡɪʟʟ ʙᴇ ʀᴇǫᴜɪʀᴇᴅ, ᴏꜰ ᴄᴏᴜʀsᴇ.”

“Naturally,” Robards said. “Potter’s well aware of the regulations surrounding our joint activities with Unspeakables. He took his Vows when he was accepted onto the Auror force, and all memories of the evening will be deposited into your Pensieve followed promptly by Obliviation.”

This was probably the worst part about working with Unspeakables. Having his mind invaded and memories modified was not something Harry ever had been nor expected he ever would be partial to. Honestly, it all sounded ridiculous to him, and not a little paranoid, and he couldn’t help but imagine the Unspeakables all looked like Mad-Eye under their robes and Glamours and weird-sounding voices. Perhaps Angelo’s accident had been less a matter of taking a Severing Charm to the kneecap and more a shortcut to a well-deserved holiday from this business. 

Their business concluded, Unspeakables R and F returned to Level 9, and Harry was dismissed for the day with encouragement from Robards to rest up for the evening’s activities. Since an afternoon nap sounded a hell of a lot better to Harry than more mindless paperwork as he waited for the Potions Analysts to get through fucking about with his lab results, he sent his Patronus to beg off lunch with Hermione and Ron, then hustled to the Atrium’s Apparition points.

Sleep had come a bit more easily each successive night following Malfoy’s execution, and Harry thought he might finally be back on schedule, but the upcoming evening’s activities were bound to throw another wrench into his efforts to adopt a decent shut-eye regimen. On arriving home (“Decrepit little hovel, sweet decrepit little hovel.”), he drew the curtains, spelled the lamps down low, and knocked back the Sleeping Potion he’d bought from the Diagon Alley Apothecary, letting it work on his system as he climbed into bed and tried to quiet his thoughts. 

It must have worked, for his whole flat was dark as pitch when Harry came to at the insistent thrumming vibration of his wand, alerting him that he had a half hour to ready himself for the mission before he needed to Apparate to the coordinates Unspeakable R had left with him.

He spelled the lamps back up and blearily shuffled to the bathroom, throwing water on his face and running fingers through his hair to breathe a bit of life back into himself. At this hour, no one was going to really notice the dark circles under his eyes, but there was professionalism to consider. He traded his scarlet day-to-day robes for the darker, more utilitarian uniform Aurors were expected to wear on stealth missions. There was little question of this being anything approaching routine, and Harry was certain he would appreciate the pocket dimensions sewn into the lining—and filled to the brim with Wheezes products—before the night was through, given the circumstances of the Unspeakables’ petition for a detail.

After bolting down a cold-cut sandwich and glass of lukewarm water from the tap, Harry gave himself a final once over, checked his pocketwatch, and followed the second hand on its final lap around the face before turning on his heel and deliberating his heart out. 

He popped back into existence, ears ringing—and took a staggering step backwards, arms pinwheeling. He’d nearly landed right on top of an Unspeakable—F, he assumed.

“Pᴜᴛ ᴛʜɪs ᴏɴ,” they said in lieu of any sort of greeting, and Harry suddenly had a full-face mask shoved into his hands—solid ebony and covered in crawling ivy-like golden filigree with fine metal sutures covering the slits of the mouth and eyes. He nearly dropped it in disgust, recoiling.

“What the _fuck_ have you got a _Neo-Death Eater mask_ for?” he hissed, holding the mask out at arm’s length.

The Unspeakable brought a matching mask up to their own face, belting it into place using an attached leather strap. With the hood of their dark robes up, they looked like they were ready to fall into lockstep alongside a resurrected Voldemort. “Pᴜᴛ ɪᴛ ᴏɴ,” they repeated. “I ᴡᴏɴ’ᴛ ᴀsᴋ ᴀ ᴛʜɪʀᴅ ᴛɪᴍᴇ.”

“Then you’re going to be watching your own back.” Harry firmed his jaw and dug in his heels. “I get I’m just along for muscle and magic, but this clearly isn’t a simple transaction with a Knockturn Alley ne’er-do-well. If we’re going to be tangling with _Death Eaters_—”

“Wᴇ ᴀʀᴇɴ’ᴛ. Nᴏᴡ _ᴘᴜᴛ ɪᴛ ᴏɴ_.” Even through the voice modulation, Harry thought he could detect a tremor of agitation, and after a tense moment during which they stared down one another, Harry gave a grudging sigh and slipped the mask on, wincing with discomfort as he did so. Was this a mask the Unspeakables had had crafted for themselves—or had it been recovered from an actual Death Eater? His stomach gave a nauseating jolt: maybe it’d been Malfoy’s, even. He tried not to inhale too deeply, lest he detect a lingering fragrance the useless Potions Analysts would tell him could only be obtained at high-end hair boutiques in Wizarding Paris.

He drew the hood of his robes up and held out his arms. “Satisfied?”

Unspeakable F seemed to regard him, their head tilting in a manner that suggesting they were taking Harry’s measure, from the tip of his now-hooded head down to his scuffed-up boots. “Pᴜᴛ ᴀᴡᴀʏ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴡᴀɴᴅ. I ᴅᴏɴ’ᴛ ɴᴇᴇᴅ ʏᴏᴜ sᴘᴏᴏᴋɪɴɢ ᴍʏ ᴍᴀʀᴋ.”

Harry snorted, the sound muffled under his mask. “I rather think whoever we’re meeting will be too distracted by your voice to give a fig about me and my wand.” He slipped it into the holster just inside his sleeve, giving it a pat. “But as you will.”

He somehow knew Unspeakable F was rolling their eyes underneath the mask and Glamour. They drew their own wand, pointed it at their throat, and said, “_Fɪɴɪᴛᴇ_,” before slipping the wand back into an invisible pocket inside their robes. “I’ve been an Unspeakable longer than you’ve been alive, Auror Potter. I can assure you I’m quite capable in my field and don’t need you pointing out the obvious at every turn.”

Harry gave a start—for without the vocal charm, it was suddenly clear to him that Unspeakable F was a _woman_, her voice carrying the same high, reedy quality of McGonagall’s breathy tones, albeit absent the familiar Scottish brogue. The voluminous robes had well hidden her body shape, and he could practically hear Hermione tutting at him for making assumptions. 

He grimaced under his mask. “I meant no offence. But surely you can understand I’m going to be a bit testy when I’m thrown into a last-minute mission I only learn on showing up involves _Death Eaters_.”

“And as I said, it _doesn’t_.” Unspeakable F sniffed, and even without the accent, Harry couldn’t stop picturing her as a surly McGonagall underneath the mask. He wondered if the _Finite_ had dispelled the Glamour as well. “We’re only posing as such. My mark is expecting to parley with a pair of Neo-Death Eaters, so a pair of Neo-Death Eaters he shall have.”

Harry frowned. “Sound’s like your mark’s either very stupid, or very dangerous.”

“Well you’re certainly not tagging along because I expect him to be a dithering fool.” She cocked her head, as if alert to a sound only she could hear. “…It’s time. He’s sure to suspect something if we aren’t already waiting for him at the rendezvous point when he arrives, so look sharp.”

Harry fought the urge to straighten up and smooth down his hair, feeling unaccountably harried. No, it wasn’t McGonagall she reminded him of—it was Mrs. Figg, and he wondered if perhaps that was what _F_ stood for. Had Mrs. Figg had siblings? Wait no—she was widowed. Or something. Then again, there was no discounting she’d made Mr. Figg take _her_ name instead. He never understood why some people didn’t just share, if it made all the difference. It was strange sometimes to Harry, Hermione still being _Granger_ and Ron still being _Weasley_ even though they’d been married going on three years now.

F took point, leading them out of the seedy little utility closet into which Harry had Apparated. He thought they must look ridiculous right about now: a pair of Neo-Death Eaters, slinking out of a broom cupboard like they’d just wrapped up a steamy rendezvous and now had to get back to the nasty business of Cursing and Hexing and causing general terroristic mayhem. 

“Stick close, and follow my lead,” F said once they arrived at a rusted door half-off its hinges. “I’ll do the speaking for the both of us. At _no_ point are you to engage the mark. Keep that wand stowed unless our lives absolutely depend on it. I’ve been trying to arrange this meeting for six months, and I’ll not have a half-cocked junior Auror mucking it up for me.”

_Senior_ Auror, Harry didn’t correct. “Right,” he drawled. “I’ll just wait for your Owl before I start flinging spells about, shall I?”

“An excellent idea,” F returned with equally dripping sarcasm, and Harry decided he might like her a bit after all. He was going to think of her as Mrs. Figg’s kin regardless now. 

Just before they slipped out the door and into the baking summer night, F wrapped herself in a tight Notice-Me-Not spell, and Harry did the same with markedly less proficiency. He could feel that he hadn’t been entirely successful covering his boots, which crunched loudly on the gravel-strewn asphalt, and a cat still watched him with wary, glowing eyes from perched atop a crumbling brick wall.

Robards might have fudged a bit when he’d boasted of Harry’s resume to the Unspeakables. Harry _had_ done well in his Combat modules, but he’d only gotten middling marks in Stealth and Tracking, mostly because he’d relied on the Cloak for so many years. He couldn’t very well whip out a Hallow in front of his colleagues, though, so here he was, shuffling around in the shadows under a patchy Notice-Me-Not. 

They were at the docks, he could see—and smell—now. The moon hung fat and bright above them, throwing long shadows across the rusted-over carcasses of old trailers for hauling dinghies and the darkened remains of a gutted guardhouse, half-covered in ivy and clinging vines with the crossing arms snapped off. 

F led him back through several overgrown side alleys before choosing, seemingly at random, one of the warehouses to enter through a loading bay door. She Levitated the door just enough they could slip under before quietly sliding it back into place. A _Lumos_ lit their way, up a grated metal staircase that led to what looked to have once been an administrative wing, full of empty offices and darkened conference rooms. Harry didn’t much like the location F had selected for her meeting with her mark—too enclosed, not enough space to spread out and work spells without some substantial collateral damage. At least there wasn’t likely to be any call for Obliviating locals if the situation got out of hand—he’d seen no signs of recent vagrant activities on the way in, and a _Revelio_ had confirmed as such. They’d have their privacy, for better or worse.

F checked all of the rooms in their corridor with a quick, cursory glance before deciding on one bearing a plate that read “_Marlon Caldwell - Deputy Packing Manager_”. Mr. Caldwell was no longer in residence, though he’d left behind a sturdy albeit dusty desk and several half-empty bookcases. Harry scanned the titles in his line of sight—_Packing Receipts 1992-1993, Packing Receipts 1993-1994, Packing Receipts 1994-1995_. Absolutely riveting.

F did not share his interest in the minutiae that had been left behind when the warehouse had been abandoned, though, evidently more concerned with laying down wards and anti-Apparition charms. Harry watched her out of the corner of his eye but made no move to help; he was only here as backup, and he doubted she’d appreciate his meddling anyway. “Is this a sting?” he asked, idly curious.

Facing the door, she traced a sigil in the air with her wand, then sliced through it. It glowed bright red, then dissipated. “It’s none of your concern is what it is.”

Harry huffed his disgust, settling back against the desk and crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m going to be Obliviated as soon as the mission’s over, you know. It’s not as if I’ll be running to the _Prophet_ ready to spill your fascinating Unspeakable secrets.”

“Indeed you won’t. Because you won’t have any to spill.”

“Are you this charming with Angelo, or am I just lucky?”

“Auror Potter,” F sighed. “My mark will be arriving by Portkey in just under three minutes, and I’ve yet to finish setting up my wards. This is an _assignment_, not tea time in the breakroom. I realise you young bucks in the DMLE tend to play things a bit more fast and loose, but I take my job quite seriously.”

Harry straightened, frowning under his mask. “Oi. I take mine seriously too.”

“Do you? Because from what I read, you’ve only managed a sixty-two per cent apprehension rate, been written up for excessive force on seven separate occasions, been put on paid suspension three times for, quote, ‘conduct unbecoming an Auror’, and been the Auror of record on twenty-five different cases in which the charges had to be dropped due to neglect to follow protocol.” She tapped the doorjamb rhythmically thrice. “So forgive me for doubting your commitment to the valiant cause of justice. My grandson comports himself with more decorum and restraint than you, and he’s still in nappies.”

“I—that’s just—how _dare_ you—” Harry stammered. Suddenly he did not like her anymore. “Where did you even—?”

F turned on him, and he could feel her glowering at him through the mask. “I’ve already warned you once not to cock up this mission, Potter. If you think that’s beyond your abilities, then pray tell me now so I can lay a Body Bind on you to help curb any impulses.”

Harry boggled at her nerve. “_You_ lot are the ones who came asking for _me_—”

“We came asking for Auror security—not the nearest warm body Robards could lay hands on. You’re only here because Robards thought we might be impressed by your name—R was. I am not. You’re quite the very _worst_ Auror for this sort of mission—” On that they could both agree. “—And I would have happily waited for Auror Angelo to recover, had we the luxury, but as I’m stuck with you, I’ll simply settle for asking that you, just for the next hour, _not_ be Harry Potter.”

There was a tense moment, and from the way F was twitching, he thought she might be breathing hard, worked up from her lecture. He wondered how many of those under-three minutes she’d wasted tearing into Harry when a simple request he shoves his small talk up his arse might have sufficed. Unspeakables were touchy sorts, he was learning, on top of being paranoid as hell. He knew that they often worked in areas the Ministry might have frowned upon, as they operated largely on their own recognisance, but perhaps this assignment was _particularly_ thorny and thus merited a greater degree of trepidation than usual.

Or maybe F really _did_ believe Harry was just a cocky arsehole who thought the rules didn’t apply to him and would sooner charge in wand-waving than take second to another. His profile did paint a rather bleak picture, he was realising, and even outside of the DMLE, his reputation preceded him.

_Don’t be Harry Potter_, she’d asked. Well he’d been faking that for years now. He supposed he could manage another hour. And if it got F killed, then that was on her head. He’d send Mrs. Figg condolence flowers and that would be that.

F cast a quick _Tempus_ and made a funny sound, a depressed little whining wheeze. “And now I’ve got no time left to set another layer on the anti-Apparition net.” She shook her wand in Harry’s face. “If my mark gets away because of that, you’ll _wish_ you’d met your end facing He Who Must Not Be Named.”

She sounded harried and tense, and Harry entertained for the first time that evening the thought that this mission actually _was_ important. Not just to the Unspeakables, but in general. And that actually suited Harry just fine. He could rein in his _Harry_-ness for a bit, if F could promise him a bit of excitement. He took a deep breath, counting to five to give his temper time to cool, and nodded. “…Fine. You want him, I’ll make sure you get him. ‘S what I’m here for, isn’t it?” He thought he might sound a bit petulant, but that was only because he _was_ a bit petulant. Robards generally pointed him where he needed to go and let Harry at it; it wasn’t his style, working within someone else’s constraints. But he would give it the old college try.

“…That is _not_ part of your mission, Auror Potter.”

“Consider it a favour, then. ‘Cause I like you so much.”

She slipped her wand back into her sleeve. “That makes one of us. Look sharp.”

At her cue, the air just on the other side of Caldwell’s dusty desk began to warp and weave—until into existence popped a scruffy, pointy, rat-faced whip of a man who looked like he’d just crawled out of the sewage grates dotting the causeway along the riverbank. He had with him a bulky briefcase, clutched fast with both hands, and his beady-eyed gaze was snapping around the room with a hunted wariness.

“Mr. Doyle. Good of you to join us this evening,” F said, her tone somehow both lilting and brusque at once, giving the impression of good breeding and a disinclination to be trifled with. Harry had to give her props: she did a fair imitation of an upper-ranked Death Eater—albeit more in the line of the un-Marked Narcissa Malfoy than the deranged hyena that had been Bellatrix Lestrange. 

Doyle ignored her, though, giving Harry the stink-eye. “…Who’s this?”

F was unruffled. “A colleague.”

“…Colleague, eh?” Doyle’s lip curled. “This colleague got a _name_? Or is he just a letter, too?”

“His name is of no consequence; he’s merely along in an observational capacity.” Harry doubted Doyle was entirely convinced by the explanation, but F managed to smoothly move the conversation along. “I trust you enjoyed your journey?”

Doyle bobbed and weaved, twitchy as anything. “Can’t say as I’m partial to Portkeying…” He heaved his briefcase up onto the desk with a huff, then reached into the inside pocket of his tattered sportscoat and drew out an ingot of some metal—gold, Harry thought it might be, though the wan cast of the _Lumos_ hanging above them made it difficult to be certain. “But I _am_ partial to the key itself.”

F’s shoulders rose with a lazy grace. “You may keep it, Mr. Doyle. As a token of our esteem.”

“Your _esteem_,” Doyle said, with a grunting, derisive snort. “Ain’t no such thing as a free lunch, Miss F, I know that. But I brung what you asked for, so I reckon between your ‘Portkey’ and my fee, we’ll be square in the end.”

F stepped closer, slow and careful, as if worried she might spook the mark. “And indeed we shall, provided the product meets our requirements.”

“Oh it’ll meet ‘em all right.” Doyle tipped the briefcase onto its side, tapping it with his wand to unlock it and then unclasping the latches. “Not that you can rightly test it, I suppose.”

“Mm. It seems we will have to trust one another.” She cocked her head curiously. “We _can_ trust you, can we not, Mr. Doyle?”

He frowned at her, fingers toying with the latches. “…I been straight with you, Miss F. You give me what I ask for, I give you what you ask for, and no questions.”

“No questions,” she repeated, a smile in her voice—then discreetly palmed her wand. “And no _answers_ either, I hope? Should any curious sorts find their way to you, that is. It would be _such_ a shame to learn you did not value our friendship as highly as we do.”

Doyle shook his head sharply. “They wouldn’t. I won’t. No ma’am.”

“Very good, then. Now—” She extended a hand to the briefcase. “May we see it?”

“Oh. Yeah, ‘course.” He popped the case open, easing back the top-side to reveal what looked to be a sort of terrarium: a glass box, gravel-pocked sand strewn about its base, dotted with a few larger stones and prickly desert plants scattered beneath a softly glowing warm heat source that pulsed rhythmically. “They’re originally native to the drier parts of the Nile valley, but most of the specimens these days are transplants from north and central America—find ‘em in playas, or hibernatin’ in burrows on the banks of arroyos. This young’n I reared m’self, though, from an egg.” Using the tip of his wand, he reached into the terrarium and began to poke and prod at a heap of sand. Something stirred, just under the surface, wriggling in irritation at being disturbed. “C’mon, love,” he crooned at whatever was in the terrarium. “Let Miss F have a look-see.”

The sand at last gave way to reveal…a snake. Just a snake, nearly invisible amidst the dirt and debris with its golden scales and beady black eyes. It writhed and roiled as Doyle continued to poke at it, but it didn’t strike. It couldn’t—for it had its tail clamped firmly in its mouth, as if it were trying to eat itself starting from the back end.

F crouched closer, getting a good look at the snake. She brought a finger to the glass and gave a gentle tap. “Magnificent little creature. A juvenile, you said?”

“Aye, she’s a yearling—but her venom sacs are fully developed, so mind your fingers, ma’am.”

F straightened up again at once, and Harry wondered just how dangerous the creature was. She continued to study it from a safe distance, though Harry didn’t think there was any danger of the snake escaping its terrarium; it seemed content to return to its dozing cocooned in the warm sand. “And this _is_ an Ouroboros? You haven’t simply charmed an adder to bite its own tail, have you?”

Doyle looked deeply affronted. “‘Course not, Miss F! On my life!”

F idly toyed with her wand, rolling it between her palms. “On your life, indeed.” She began to pace a small circle, back and forth in front of Caldwell’s desk. “You said you reared her yourself. Where did you procure the egg?”

Doyle frowned, leaving off harassing the snake. “The egg, ma’am?”

“I’m no magizoologist, Mr. Doyle, but I assume these creatures breed?”

“…Aye, they do.” He shifted uncomfortably. “If it’s all the same to you, though, I’d rather not reveal my sources. Trade secret, we can call it.”

“I’m afraid it is _not _all the same to me. Now: where did you procure the egg?”

Doyle was definitely getting cagey now, and Harry felt the little hairs on his arms start to rise. He held back, though, knowing that if he made any move before receiving explicit instructions to do so, F would hit him with a Flaying Curse for mucking up her mission.

Doyle scratched at his neck, looking F up and down. “…Thought there wasn’t supposed to be any questions…”

“No questions from _you_,” F snipped. “_I_ will ask all the questions I like. Unless you have a problem with my ascertaining the provenance of this creature?”

“No problem, ma’am, no—but I don’t see how where I got the egg’s got anything to do with our transaction here.” He jutted his chin out, perhaps feeling a bit of boldness might win him points in F’s book. Harry doubted it would have done so, had F actually been who she claimed. In his experience, Death Eaters tended to curse first and ask questions later if their lessers got fresh. “She’s a hundred per cent pure magical beast, an Ouroboros—and she’ll suit any purposes to which you might put her quite well, of that you can be certain.” Perhaps sensing that F’s questions meant she was reconsidering the arrangement, he pressed on with his explanation. “You simply let her bite the, er, _subject_ of your choosing—and she must bite them, mind. You can’t extract her venom and just inject it yourself. Unless you want to kill someone, in which case—” He nodded to himself, clearing his throat. “Well, that’s your business. But let her bite you, and you’ll shortly find yourself…whenever you’d like to be.”

Harry frowned—had Doyle misspoken? 

“…It certainly sounds simple enough,” F said, tapping the chin of her mask in thought.

“Ain’t nothing simple about it, Miss F. Idle thoughts can leave the subject waking up Mordred-knows-when. One bloke was thinkin’ about a Quidditch game when he got bit, so he only got thrown back to the Tuesday before. Y’have to guard your thoughts and concentrate, ‘else you’ll waste your one chance.”

“_One _chance?”

Doyle laughed, grin yellow and toothy. “She ain’t a Time-Turner, ma’am. What you change _matters_. So unless you’re keen to hunt down _another _Ouroboros, you’ll live with the consequences of your actions.”

“Hm,” was all F said, and Harry was starting to get a queasy feeling now that the subject of _Time-Turners_ had entered the conversation. “…What’s her range?”

“Her range?”

“Time-wise.”

“Oh, well—there’s no telling, honest. You can’t go forward, I don’t think—least I’ve never heard it—and if you go back, it’s got to be within your own lifetime, so says all the reports. There’s only a few victims of record, now, but as I hear it, the longest trip was three hundred, give or take.”

“Three hundred—what?”

Doyle’s wiry brows waggled. “_Years_, ma’am. That particular gentleman had evidently been on his death bed when he’d chanced a bite—said he’d been thinking about all the sorts of things he might have done different, if he’d had the chance to do it all over. ‘Course he could only tell people that _after_ he’d learned how to talk again, seeing as he went back to around age two.” He gave F a knowing look. “…So wouldn’t be no trouble at all to go back a few years, or even a decade or two, given a properly aged victim.”

“…Noted, Mr. Doyle.” F’s tone was cool, which impressed Harry very much, because he was _freaking the fuck out_ inside, since from the flow of the conversation, it sounded to him like this man thought he was selling the Neo-Death Eaters a creature capable of manipulating the timeline. One that, in the wrong hands, could help _bring back Voldemort_. They could go back and slit Harry’s throat while he slept in his dormitory, or reduce him to ash on his way home from St. Mungo’s as a babe. They could kill Lily or James before Harry’d even been born. Any one little thing changed, and the whole _war_ might’ve turned out different. They wouldn’t even have to kill _Harry_, just anyone who’d helped him along the way in even the most insignificant manner. They might poison Professor Grubbly-Plank’s tea, and then years later, Harry’s head would be mounted over Voldemort’s Floo.

How was this something the Unspeakables were working on that the DMLE wasn’t equally involved in? Or _was_ the DMLE involved, just the Aurors weren’t? Or were the Aurors involved, just Harry wasn’t? But no—if he’d been left out of the loop intentionally, or if he wasn’t meant to know what was going on, Robards wouldn’t have assigned him. Or would he have, given Harry was going to be Obliviated after this mission was finished anyway? Harry’s head started to throb with a violence he hadn’t felt since Voldemort’s fall, and he struggled with the urge to just collapse against Caldwell’s desk.

“How many more of our little friend are out there, would you say? At an educated guess.”

“How many _more_?” Doyle gave a scoffing little laugh. “What would you want with _more_? You only need the one for—for deeds.”

“That’s none of your concern, Mr. Doyle. Only answer the question.”

Doyle rubbed at his chin, brows knitting. “Well…I—I don’t rightly know. I don’t know of any breeders—”

“Then how did you come by the egg for this one?”

“I—I told you: trade secret.”

F’s voice grew cold and sharp, and she carefully placed her hands palm-down on the desk, leaning forward until she was nose-to-mask with Doyle. “And _I_ told _you_: we will have no secrets with you. How did you come by this creature? And who is your supplier?”

Harry groaned inwardly—F sounded _exactly_ like a member of law enforcement now, and even Doyle was bound to notice how unnecessarily probing her questions were growing. For someone hailing from a department that operated entirely in stealth, Unspeakables did not seem particularly adept at subtlety once outside the confines of Level 9. F talked a big game, but Harry was a hair’s breadth away from leaping in and going, as F was sure to accuse, _full Harry Potter _on the situation.

“This ain’t part of the deal, Miss F. I was told to provide the creature, and I’d be handsomely compensated for it. Well there she is—” He held up his wand, clutching it before him with a tight, trembling double-fisted grip. “—So where’s my compensation?”

“F…” Harry warned, voice low and soft—but Doyle caught it all the same.

“So he _does_ speak!” Doyle kept his wand trained on the both of them, gaze growing more manic by the minute. “I don’t care which of you it is, but _one_ of you better have my money, or me and Mathilda are out!”

“_Mathilda_?” Harry barked, unable to help himself, and F gave him a hard _WHAP_ with her wand. He recoiled in pain, hissing, “What the _fuck_, F?!”

F ignored him, though, arms spread wide before Doyle in a gesture of vulnerability entirely undermined by the iron grip in which she held her wand. “You shall have your compensation, Mr. Doyle. But the terms of our arrangement have changed.”

“The fuck they have!” Doyle growled, and he made a wild grab for Mathilda’s briefcase—

—which was right about when F must have decided to say _fuck it _and fired an _Incarcerous_ at Doyle. He was quicker on the draw than Harry would have given him credit for, though, and the bonds bounced harmlessly off of his hastily conjured _Protego. _He twisted on the spot in an attempt to Disapparate, but F’s anti-Apparition net appeared to have been woven tight enough to keep him in place, despite Harry’s earlier distraction, and Doyle released a long string of black and blue oaths. 

“You let me out of here, you double-crossing bitch!” he roared, sending a jet of red square at F that only missed clipping her head because Harry dropped down and swept his leg out, sending her collapsing to her knees. 

“Should I stay back and let you handle this?” Harry asked, ducked down behind Caldwell’s desk. “Or can I go back to being Harry Potter now?”

F shoved him away, struggling back to her feet. “Right, change of plans. We incapacitate him and bring him in for interrogation.”

That was much more Harry’s speed, and he ripped off the Neo-Death Eater mask, flinging it across the room as he unleashed a bright, brilliant Flashbang Jinx. 

Doyle gave a yowl of agony, bringing his free hand up to rub at his blinded eyes as he carelessly slashed the air with his wand. Spells came flying fast and loose then, and Harry launched himself at F to avoid a _Reducto_ that instead blew one of Caldwell’s bookcases to smithereens. There went all those packing receipts from the early 90s. 

F tried another _Incarcerous_ that fizzled when she choked on a cloud of dust, and Harry readied a Body Bind—but his aim was knocked shy when Caldwell’s desk was hit with a wide-flung _Expulso_. Shrapnel went everywhere, and Harry tackled F to the ground, throwing up an Umbrella Charm as around them rained shredded receipts and rat shit and wood shavings and glass and the Ouroboros and—

Harry froze.

F shoved him off with a roar of fury, pointing her wand square at the still flailing Doyle and rasping, “_Incarcerous!_”

Harry didn’t know if she finally found her target. He couldn’t turn to look—didn’t dare move a muscle, because he was feeling a bit woozy from the blast concussion and everything was taking on a soft, wobbly blur, but he was pretty sure he wasn’t imagining the Ouroboros reared up _right there_ in front of him, no longer biting its tail, just staring at him with its beady black eyes. He held his breath, so long it hurt, and regretted for the first time in a very long while having lost the ability to speak Parseltongue, because he didn’t think the Ouroboros had taken kindly to its lovely little terrarium being blown up and looked very keen to express its displeasure with Harry’s nose.

“E—Easy there, Mathilda…” he tried weakly, but Mathilda seemed no more impressed with her name than Harry had been, for she opened her mouth, bared her handsome fangs, and released a high warning hiss, like a kettle just about to boil, before striking like lightning—

Just as Harry’s consciousness winked out, shrinking down to a dot and going blacker than black, a voice cut through his mind with that same high hiss: 

_As you wish_.


	3. Chapter 3

Harry roused to the uncomfortable warmth of too-bright sunshine streaming in through the glazed glass of a tall window that he knew, even through the bleary haze of just waking, was not part of his apartment. Didn’t think it was part of _any_ of the buildings on his street, even. He rolled, creakily, onto his back and pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, attempting to rub away the sleep. His skin—felt tight. Like it didn’t fit. And his nose felt like he’d shoved a whole chili pepper up each nostril, it burned so. He let his hands flop back onto the mattress, which was surprisingly plush, and blinked, squinting, up at the iron chandelier rotating lazily overhead, half-burned candles flickering in its sconces.

Right, he _definitely_ didn’t have one of _those_ in his ‘decrepit little hovel’.

He bolted upright, heart in his throat, because this _wasn’t_ his bed, those _weren’t_ his wall-hangings, and this sure as hell _wasn’t_ his room.

Except—

Except it _was_ his bed. And those _were_ his wall-hangings.

And this was _absolutely_ his room. Maybe not the bedroom he usually slept in. Not even one he’d slept in for years now. But it _had_ been his room, once upon a time. 

When he’d been a student, back at Hogwarts.

He’d woken up in _Gryffindor Tower_, which would not have been such a terrible shock had he not graduated the institution some six years back. These days, he only visited on the anniversary of the war’s end—that wasn’t today, was it? He couldn’t quite recall how he’d gotten here, but he didn’t think it was time to dredge up all those memories again, not so soon. No…no, definitely not the anniversary—he’d delivered his remarks only a couple months past, hadn’t he? He’d have an ulcer curdling in his stomach from the stress and anxiety of the whole affair if it’d been that time of year. And he didn’t. Felt fit as a fiddle, in fact, aside from the aching throb of his nose and the overall uncomfortable itchiness, like he needed to shed his skin-suit for something a little roomier.

He swallowed, forcing himself to take in the room with a clear head—he was sitting in his four-poster (definitely his; that was his Quidditch helmet hanging on the bedpost at the foot) in his typical sleepwear: a singlet and boxers. This didn’t explain why he was at Hogwarts, but it did suggest he’d fallen asleep here the night before willingly, rather than been drugged and kidnapped for reasons unclear at present. The other four beds had their curtains drawn back and tied off to show haphazardly made-up bedclothes—a common sight Harry recalled from his youth—but no occupants. Harry was, it seemed, alone.

Not kidnapped, but…perhaps he’d accidentally Apparated himself here, in his sleep? Plausible, except Hermione’s voice rang clear in his head, reminding him in stuffy tones that _You can’t Apparate on Hogwarts grounds!_ Besides which, he’d never Apparated this far in his life. The jump from Azkaban to the mainland hadn’t been half the distance from London to the Scottish highlands, and it’d damn near killed Harry. He’d be feeling the effects keenly right about now if he’d sleep-Apparated himself here somehow, damning the anti-Apparition wards blanketing the campus. 

So Apparition was out, too. Had he Flooed in, then? Or a Portkey—

A Portkey. A gold ingot, clutched in the greedy grasp of…

And suddenly it all came rushing back to him in a flood of memory: Doyle the twitchy smuggler of exotic magical creatures, the prickly Unspeakable F who may or may not have been Unspeakable Figg, Marlon Caldwell’s abandoned office full of decade-old packing receipts, and…

The heavy oak door to the dorm room was flung open, crashing against the stonework as in came charging Ron Weasley kit out in full Gryffindor school robes and looking a _hell_ of a lot younger than he had at Harry’s impromptu birthday lunch just the other day.

He boggled at Harry. “Oi, you’re still in bed? Breakfast started five minutes ago, mate!”

Oh _fuck_. Mathilda. Mathilda the _Ouroboros_ who bit people on the nose and then sent them _whirling through time_.

“Nooo no no no, nope…” he whispered to himself in a frantic rush, shaking his head.

Nope—no. _No_. He needed to calm down, to take a breath or seven and just think about this _rationally_. He’d just woken up, his brain was a little fuzzy, that was all. No sense jumping to that wild unlikelihood right off. He’d have a moment, get his thoughts in order, and then things would start making sense. He’d probably just gotten knocked out in the firefight with Doyle and F, that was all. He’d taken a hex to the head, passed out, and this was a _dream_. Magic was real, this Harry of course knew, and he’d even seen time-travel shenanigans up close and personal, but even in the wizarding world, the simplest explanation was usually the right one. 

Usually.

“Uh _yeah_,” Ron snorted, reaching for the doors to his wardrobe and giving a hard yank. “It _did_. Did your wand not go off properly?” He stuffed his head into the wardrobe, rifling through the contents. “Filch made me come back to get my tie…”

Harry was not listening. Harry was busy having a minor episode. Because the sheets wrapped around him felt warm, and slept-in, and soft. He could feel a crust of drool at the corner of his mouth, and he knew without touching that there was a prominent indent on his cheek from sleeping funny on the pillow. He could smell the cologne Ron had applied far too heavily from across the room, and he could hear the low hum of activity down in the courtyard outside the window.

It all felt _real_. More real than any dream he’d ever had, that was for certain. And so _clear_. Dreams always had that…well, _dreamy_ quality to them, didn’t they? This almost felt like dipping into a Pensieve memory, except he was living it, interacting with the people inside, and you couldn’t do that in Pensieve memories—right?

Ron finally found his tie, hastily looping it around his neck and fidgeting with it as he turned back to Harry, frowning. “Aren’t you going to get dressed? You haven’t even showered—going to put it off ‘til after? Dunno why you’d want to rush the best meal of the day, but…” His frown deepened from one of annoyance into genuine concern, though, when Harry continued to just gape, three steps behind the conversation. “…Mate? You okay there?”

Harry had to say something—anything, and he opened his mouth, taking several attempts before he finally found his voice: “Breakfast?”

Ron gave him a funny little smile, a bit worried, a bit bemused. “Yeah. Breakfast. Before lunch, after yesterday’s dinner? The only thing that gets me out of bed some days? Hermione’s already downstairs, but she said she’ll save us spots. C’mon.” He didn’t wait for Harry to respond, only raised his wand and Vanished Harry’s covers with a swipe.

Harry squawked and drew his knees up—and now he could see that the boxers he was wearing had little snidgets on them, darting to and fro to hide in the wrinkles the fabric made. He remembered getting them as a gag gift from Fred and George…Christmas fifth year? Sixth? Somewhere around then. He hadn’t seen these things in _ages_. They’d gotten holes in inappropriate places and had to be junked. But they looked fresh and clean now, no signs of wear whatsoever. Like he’d only received them recently. 

He fingered the material, mind still whirring. It was so _real_—but more than real, it was so…so _vivid_. Too vivid to be a memory: Harry tended to cling more to the emotions of a moment than the details, and he wouldn’t have remembered sitting here, in Gryffindor Tower, wearing his snidget boxers while Ron fumbled inexpertly with his tie before finally deciding to just charm it into a proper knot. Not a memory, or even a dream. All the sensory input was so strong, overwhelming almost in its intensity compared to how Harry had been living.

And it was here, sitting in his pyjamas in his old dorm room, that he realised how very…monochromatic life had been of late. Everything around Harry—his work, his apartment, even his friends to some degree—had been drained and sapped and _desaturated_, and suddenly it was all too bright and brilliant and vibrant again, without warning. It gave him a headache, just _existing_ in this moment, and he brought a hand up, reflexively, to rub at his temple.

“Oi, Harry…” There was a keen note of worry in Ron’s voice, and he was immediately at Harry’s side, a hand on his shoulder. “You all right, there? It’s not…it’s not your scar, right? I mean, you said it stopped hurting after…well, _after_. It hasn’t started up again, has it?”

Oh, well that at least told Harry _when_ this was: it had to be Eighth Year, when McGonagall had invited them back to finish up their schooling after the war had ended. He supposed that was the bright side to whatever was happening: he wouldn’t have to deal with the threat of Voldemort looming over him while he tried to sort out what was going on. And now, without the bedclothes giving cover to his more delicate bits, he felt the slight nip in the air that suggested it was going on autumn, or perhaps spring. Not very much to go on, but it was enough information he reckoned he could bluff his way through the morning.

“No—no, nothing like that, I don’t think. Just a normal headache.”

Ron smiled, releasing his shoulder with a pat. “Happens when you don’t wear your glasses, right? Here.” He snatched up Harry’s glasses from the nightstand and pressed them into Harry’s hand. “Or maybe you’re just hungry. Either way, let’s get you sorted.”

“Right…” Harry stared down at the glasses and frowned. He hadn’t worn glasses since he joined the Aurors—regulations didn’t allow them, on account of it being too easy to lose them in the heat of the moment, and he’d been told he’d have to have his vision magically corrected before he’d be allowed to start his training. Wearing them again would take a bit of getting used to. He slipped them on and blinked until his eyes adjusted—and suddenly the room came into sharp, crisp focus. He hadn’t even realised he’d been half-blind on waking, chalking up the soft blur everything had taken on to sleep still dogging him. “Let me just throw on some clothes, yeah?”

Ron gave his tie a tug. “Don’t forget your tie; Filch is out for blood this morning.” He headed for the door, walking backwards. “I’ll be down in the Common Room when you’re ready. But _hurry_. I’m wasting away here!”

Harry gave him a weak wave. “I know better than to get between you and breakfast, mate. I’ll only be two shakes.” 

Ron saluted him in response, and then he was gone, and Harry flopped back down onto the bed, burying his face in his hands with a groan. What the _fuck_ was going on? This couldn’t be Mathilda’s doing—no, there were still a half-dozen more likely explanations for Harry waking up eighteen again in his Hogwarts dormitory wearing underpants he’d thrown out years ago and once again cursed with defective vision. _Loads_ of explanations. Sure, he’d shot down a few, but…well, perhaps he would think better on a full stomach.

“That was, like, _ten_ shakes,” Ron reminded him with a grumble when Harry finally joined him in the Common Room, kit out in his own school robes—and tie—with his book satchel hanging off one shoulder. _That_ had been fun to put together, as he couldn’t remember half the classes he’d taken his Eighth Year, let alone his schedule. In the end, he’d fit as many books as he could into the bag, groaning at the weight, and decided to play it by ear. 

“Er, yeah—had to get my bag together and couldn’t find…” He groped for a subject. “What I was working on last night.”

“Oh.” Ron gave a funny little grin, ducking his head. “Yeah, I nicked it, sorry—Slughorn never reads your essays anyway these days, probably just frames it so he can boast about it later. I couldn’t manage a decent conclusion, so I figured it wouldn’t hurt if I copied the last three inches of yours.” He reached into his bag, drawing out a tightly coiled scroll, and passed it back to Harry. “Here you go.”

“Ah, thanks. I dunno if you’re better or worse off for it, though. You know me and essays.”

“Blind leading the blind, that’s us,” Ron sighed, marching for the Fat Lady’s portrait. “But at least we’re blind together!”

Harry smiled, despite himself. “And Hermione’s got the torch.” 

He’d missed this Ron—the Ron from when everything had been new and raw, and he’d still been trying to keep his chin up despite losing his brother. The Ron who’d genuinely enjoyed having one year more of just being a kid, a student, without responsibilities, because he’d had to help shoulder Harry’s burden for seven years already. The Ron who’d only been too happy to follow Harry into an Aurorship and probably would have died there if Harry hadn’t told him that this was something Harry needed to do, but it didn’t have to be something _Ron_ needed to do as well. Besides, they still saw each other most every other day, and George was doing all right, between Ron and Angelina. It’d been for the best, really it had.

But _god_ he’d missed this Ron.

The castle was much as he remembered it—which was certainly a good thing. He didn’t go exploring much at the remembrance banquets—he couldn’t stand to see the little memorial plaques built into the bricks—and he knew he would have easily gotten lost if he’d had to navigate the impossible staircases without Ron. He’d have sat there stuck in Gryffindor Tower like a depressed, washed-up Rapunzel waiting for someone to come and rescue him. At least the plaques hadn’t been installed yet, he didn’t think, so he could wander the castle freely, if the urge struck him, and re-learn the lay of the place without fear of being assaulted by memories.

The portraits chided them with startled huffs as they raced down to the Great Hall, and Harry tried not to notice how some of the brickwork still bore the scars of war. McGonagall had overseen the larger construction projects the summer after the final battle, but she’d refused to allow anyone to work cosmetic spells inside the castle walls. _“Some wounds must be left to heal at their own pace, and you’re only making matters worse trying to rush the process_._”_ He thought she’d meant it as a metaphor, and perhaps she had, but still she’d forbidden anyone from attempting to patch up the halls and classrooms and stairwells. 

Harry hadn’t thought it was terribly reasonable, expecting students to focus on their studies while evidence of good people having laid down their lives stared at them from the very walls, but McGonagall had been Headmistress and Harry had just been the traumatised half-dead Chosen One trying to piece his life back together, so what did he know?

“Mental they won’t let us fix up the castle, right?” Ron said, evidently having caught Harry staring too long at a charred plinth from which a gargoyle had once loomed.

“Mental,” Harry agreed with a tight smile, then brushed past Ron, head down, to continue on down the stairs. “I’m starving.” 

He did not pause again to let himself get caught up in memory until they reached the landing at the foot of the stairwell—but once they stood before the wide-open doors of the Great Hall, Harry really did have to take a moment to breathe. To brace himself. He knew what he’d see, just across that threshold—he’d lived through it once already, after all—but it could still be a bit…overwhelming. It was one thing to stand there beneath the enchanted ceiling and mourn the lost with other survivors. It was another thing entirely to breakfast at their House tables, discussing homework and weekend plans and who liked who as if nothing were amiss. 

He didn’t know how he’d made it through meals the first time around, and he wasn’t entirely sure he was ready to do it again now, even if this was just a dream or a hallucination or a Pensieve thought gone rogue.

Ron, bless him, didn’t ask. Didn’t say anything, even, just clapped him on the shoulder and continued on inside, heading for the Gryffindor tables, where Hermione was sat towards the end waving them over. 

Harry took a breath—and then a step. And then another, and another until he’d shuffled his way inside, forcing himself to look around, to take it all in, and see not a battleground or a mausoleum but just a big room, full of life and acceptance and all the sorts of things Harry had never quite been able to manage. And maybe that was the problem: the trying. Maybe everyone else made it look so effortless to move on because it _was_ effortless—in that they’d put no effort into doing so.

_“You’re only making matters worse trying to rush the process,”_ McGonagall had said, and Harry hadn’t realised he’d been doing just that. He’d only been trying to keep up with his friends and loved ones, he thought. But seven years later, and he was no better off than he’d been that first bright, piercing morning, so clearly he’d thought wrong. Something was…blocking him. Keeping him from seeing this place as anything other than a deathtrap.

So he would look, and he’d _see_. Because walking about, head down and ears covered, certainly wasn’t helping matters.

The Great Hall was abuzz with activity, most of the tables full, some overflowing—more Gryffindors had returned than from the other three Houses, and the Eighth Years jockeyed with the younger years for spots at the table, swiping breakfast pastries or reaching over their Housemates for carafes of coffee and juice. The low hum of conversation from dozens of students and teachers hung in the air like a summer haze, and Harry took a deep breath. God, he’d not smelled anything so good in _ages_.

It wasn’t just food smells—though there was that, rashers of crisp bacon and mountains of fluffy yellow scrambled eggs and warm buttery toast and all right, he needed a plate in front of him _now_. 

It was that, and the people. The students old and brand new, the staff who’d called this castle their home longer than any students, the House-Elves and the ghosts and even Peeves the Poltergeist. It was the scent of turning weather, of grass stains, of parchment and inkwells, of this _fucking school_ that he’d loved and ached for and _missed_ so badly, because everything had been so simple back here, behind these stone walls. He hadn’t appreciated it before—not before the war, not after it. Not in any of the years since leaving. He’d always been so caught up in the memories, concentrating on the scars too hard to see nothing else had really changed.

No one had _moved on_. They’d just…found equilibrium, swinging back like a pendulum from the frantic terror of war to the easy contentment of peacetime. Except Harry was stuck out here on the long arm and couldn’t get back. He could see it now, though—where he was meant to be. And it felt a lot like right here.

Maybe that was why he’d been so tired of late. He couldn’t let himself just _swing_. He was always fighting against gravity, like he knew better, when all this time he’d simply needed to let go.

Now, it didn’t really suit him, the ‘waiting and hoping’ approach to things, but well, F had had a point: his impetuosity hadn’t exactly done him many favours of late. Perhaps, for just a bit longer, he could keep on not being Harry Potter. At least until he sorted out what exactly had happened to him.

He picked up his pace, doing a little half-jog over to where Ron and Hermione had saved him space on the groaning bench at the end of the Gryffindor table. 

“Nice of you to join us,” Hermione said, pushing a cherry danish Harry’s way. “Saved you something since you weren’t here to face down the ravening hordes yourself.”

Harry tried not to stare at her—she looked so _young_, eyes bright and cheeks plump and school uniform immaculate. Had she really been so _eager_? Seven years was not such a terribly long time, he knew, but each and every one had weighed heavily on all of them. Harry wondered what he looked like himself, regretting not trying to catch a glimpse in the mirror on his way down to meet Ron. Perhaps he’d regressed back to the baby-fat chub of First Year.

Dream or memory or hallucination or whatever this might be, though, Harry found that he really didn’t care. It was enough it was here at all. 

He supposed he ought to be feeling a sense of urgency, the drive to undo all this and get back to the business of saving people. He was still waiting on that report from the Potions Analysts, after all. But he hadn’t taken a holiday in ages—unless you counted unpaid probation—so he deserved this little jaunt into fantasy. 

Besides, it wasn’t as if anything he did here really mattered, right? This was his own private little sandbox. He’d let gravity work its magic on him and see if he couldn’t find a bit of equilibrium.

“Cheers,” Harry sighed, piling a plate high with savoury delights to complement the pastry. Sure, this feast was entirely in his head, but it was better food than he’d seen since…well, since the Remembrance Banquet, so he’d take what his mind had so generously conjured without complaint. 

As he munched contentedly on a thick slice of honey toast, he let his eye wander up and down the table, taking in his Housemates, who were largely engrossed in their own conversations and mostly gave him friendly nods or morning greetings. Neville seemed particularly interested in whatever it was Hufflepuff refugee Hannah Abbot was talking about, his gaze never straying from her face, not even to spoon hot porridge into his mouth, and Harry found it all rather fond. It was the same utterly smitten look he’d seen on Neville’s face when Harry had been standing at his side as he and Hannah had exchanged their vows just the February past. 

He frowned to himself in thought: had this actually happened? Was he _really_ remembering this, or was this simply his mind, projecting a relationship that hadn’t yet formed onto an old, familiar backdrop? When had Neville said he and Hannah’d first started dating? It’d been after school, hadn’t it? Then again, Neville mooning over Hannah here didn’t necessarily mean they were dating…

Fuck it, his headache was coming back. 

He tried not to think about it, turning his attention back to Ron and Hermione, who were only slightly less moon-y than Neville and Hannah but at least seemed happy to loop Harry into their conversation. 

“You’re looking a bit peaky this morning, Harry—Ron said you weren’t feeling well?”

He waved off Hermione’s concern, swallowing around the last bite of his toast. “Just took a bit to get the engines running, that’s all.”

“He probably would’ve slept clean through breakfast if I hadn’t gone back for my tie!” Ron said, clearly horrified on Harry’s behalf. “I thought you were right behind us when we headed down together.”

Harry spooned another helping of scrambled eggs onto his plate, giving it a generous dousing of pepper and paprika. “Guess you must’ve been distracted.”

Ron ducked his head, his wobbly smile proving he was anything but penitent. “Yeah…” He bumped Hermione’s shoulder. “_You_ could’ve reminded me about my tie, though.”

Hermione shrugged, quirking one brow. “But then I wouldn’t have gotten to watch you leave, would I?”

At least some things were as they’d ever been, Harry mused, digging into his eggs with vigour. Did comas make you hungry? Because Harry was downright _ravenous_ now that he’d decided to go along with this hallucination business, and he thought he might have to let out his belt a few notches before he left the table.

Hermione and Ron carried on with their flirting, Harry’s existence steadily fading into distant memory. Seamus was sat just across the table and a few seats down, quill twitching furiously as he hurried to finish what was likely the same essay Ron had been cribbing from Harry the night before. He caught Harry staring and gave a _What can you do?_ sort of shrug. Harry nodded, commiserating; he wasn’t exactly looking forward to having to dredge up everything he’d learned (and since forgotten) at Hogwarts, depending on how long this dream wanted to play out. N.E.W.T.s had been a bitch the first go-round, and that’d been with his education relatively fresh in his mind. 

But something over Harry’s shoulder seemed to have caught Seamus’s eye, for he jerked his chin, signalling Harry to get a look himself, and even before Harry had twisted around, he could already hear the scandalised excitement rippling through the gentle din of the Great Hall.

Conversations dropped down to a whisper, and heads around him turned to regard the entrance. Unaccountably curious now, Harry followed their gaze—

—and boggled, as in walked (well, slinked really, doing his level best to avoid the watchful, wary eyes of his peers and scurrying to the Slytherin table with all the grace of a kicked Crup) Draco _fucking_ Malfoy.

Alive.

_Alive_.

And of course he was alive. This was Eighth Year—Harry had saved the git himself not three months before this moment, swooping down on a broom and hauling him up while Fiendfyre ripped through the Room of Hidden Things, devouring everything in its path. Whatever this was—dream or memory or his own personal hell—there was no reason Malfoy _wouldn’t_ be here, right now, if this was meant to be the Hogwarts Eighth Year that Harry remembered.

Ron made a noise of disgust at his side. “Well that’s put me off breakfast.” He pushed his plate away in dramatic protest—but not before sneaking an iced cruller from the pastry tray. “At least he had the decency to wait ‘til I was almost done.”

“Yes,” Hermione drawled, poking him in the side. “You’re just skin and bones, look at you.”

Harry couldn’t look away, eyes following after Malfoy as he crept along the back wall, head down, to grab a bit of bench at the furthest end of the Slytherin tables. He was all alone, quickly and clumsily filling his plate with the remaining scraps of breakfast while everyone gave him a ten-foot berth, like he’d come down with Spattergroit. It was quite the most pathetic thing Harry thought he’d ever seen—and he’d seen Malfoy on the eve of his execution.

He tried to swallow, but his throat was too dry, and unlike Ron, he thought he might have _actually_ been put off his breakfast. “He’s…not very popular these days, is he?”

Ron snorted. “I never got why you saved his pasty arse before, but I think I see it now—it’s a sweet sight, ain’t it? If I was him, I’d do a bunk, I think—find myself another magical cabinet and fuck off to parts unknown.” He glowered at Malfoy, taking a great bite of his cruller. “Can’t believe they even let him come back here…”

“The didn’t _let_ him come back,” Hermione reminded matter-of-factly. “It’s part of his—”

“Ministry-mandated probation…” Harry finished, half to himself, though he could feel his friends staring at him like he’d grown a second head. 

“Right…” Hermione said. “…I didn’t realise you paid attention to the papers these days.”

He could hear the familiar suspicion in her voice, the tone that said he’d done something she hadn’t expected but wasn’t actually surprised by and wasn’t sure she approved of. He didn’t really care, though, because his mind was off to the races once again.

If this was a dream, it was certainly a very elaborate one. 

He was well past the point of denying that he’d always paid entirely too much attention to Malfoy—though he maintained he’d had good reason—but as he recalled it, they hadn’t really interacted much during Eighth Year. In fact, he struggled to think of an instance when they’d traded more than two words. 

They’d mostly ignored each other, really, so he was _definitely_ sure his mind wouldn’t have been able to conjure in such detail the subtle hunch to Malfoy’s back, trying to make himself as small and unassuming as possible, or the way a few of the bolder lower-year students dared to try and hit him with peach pits from further down the table, or how he picked at his plate but didn’t wind up actually eating any of it.

Harry found that his own appetite, nigh insatiable only a moment ago, had completely fled him. 

“C’mon,” Ron said with a sigh, unfolding his long legs from under the table at twisting around on the bench. “Let’s head off. Nothing more to see here.”

Harry let himself be blindly led around by Ron (and Hermione when their timetables matched), up staircases and down corridors to classes he only vaguely remembered. Blessedly, he’d never been a very active participant in lectures before, so his professors didn’t bother calling on him, nor did they expect his work to be all that stellar.

Which was a good thing, as he barely paid any attention, still in a daze from the unexpected run-in (of sorts) with Malfoy. And when he _did_ pay attention, well—that was almost worse.

Because for every lesson point he found he’d forgotten, there was an unsettling moment where he knew, somehow, _exactly_ what was going to happen. 

Like a Thestral foal kicking one of the Slytherin Seventh Years in the head during Care of Magical Creatures and having to be Levitated by her Housemates to see Madame Pomfrey.

Or Dean nearly choking on a creme puff at dinner as he tried to sing the national anthem, Seamus slapping him on his back as he caught his breath.

He saw these things, and slowly—reluctantly—began to accept the uncomfortable reality that this might not be a dream or a hallucination or anything so pedestrian.

That these things were so familiar because he’d already experienced them. That they were so vivid because he was experiencing them _again_.

The Ouroboros had bitten him, and just as Doyle had claimed it would, it had…sent him back in time? That couldn’t be what had happened, could it? Because Time-Turners were one thing, but being catapulted back seven years was entirely another. Then again, Doyle _had_ mentioned that one bloke jumping back three _hundred _years…

Part of Harry still wanted, desperately, to cling to the idea that maybe he really was just in a coma, and this was all in his head, a fanciful imagining that was entirely self-concocted and merely indicated a sore need for a long holiday. 

But Dumbledore’s words rang clear and clarion over the years: Of course this was happening in his head, but why should that mean it wasn’t real?

And that raised the notion that he might have simply died (again), but this place was nothing like the King’s Cross Station he’d gone to before, and he didn’t imagine any version of his afterlife would involve Malfoy. Surely he hadn’t committed nearly enough sins to deserve _that_.

Which meant, much as he hated to admit it, the only explanation left was that Mathilda had been every bit the fantastic beast Doyle had claimed her to be. 

Had the Neo-Death Eaters actually been after the Ouroboros, in the end? Or had the meeting been entirely a set-up by the Unspeakables, a way to get their hands on a magical creature to study down in the Room of Time, perhaps? The former certainly sounded feasible—he’d seen first-hand the depths to which the Neo-Death Eaters would sink in their bid to perpetuate the terror of Voldemort’s reign despite their exalted leader’s downfall. They were also well-connected and well-funded enough they weren’t liable to be fooled by a hoax.

The latter, though, Harry could not discount—but that held the same implications: he doubted the Unspeakables would have sought out a meeting with the likes of Doyle if there hadn’t been some evidence giving credence to the Ouroboros’s abilities.

Regardless, even a mere twelve hours in this place—or time, rather—had convinced Harry that he was going to need reinforcements. If this really wasn’t a hallucination or dream, he would need help getting himself sorted, which meant managing to convince his best friends he was less Harry Potter, distracted student, and more Harry Potter, time-travelling Auror.

He chose his moment carefully, waiting until the Common Room had largely emptied for the evening as the younger students trundled off to their beds while the older ones either called it an early night or distracted themselves with card games or studies. 

Hermione seemed firmly in the latter camp, but Harry was able to wrangle her away from an engrossing Arithmancy reading without much effort—which, he supposed, should have been telling. Ron had been only too happy to have an excuse to put off doing his Charms work and eagerly followed Harry to a corner of the Common Room intended for use as a reading nook. 

When Harry cast _Muffliato_ to ensure they wouldn’t be overheard, Hermione’s hackles went up. “All right, you’ve been acting strangely all day, Harry—what’s going on?”

“He has?” Ron asked, flopping down into a plush, overstuffed chair and throwing his feet up onto an equally plush ottoman that materialised from nothing.

“_Yes_, he has,” she huffed. “He’s been distant and distracted all day, not paying attention in class—”

“I don’t think I ever really paid attention in class…” Harry said.

Ron smiled. “Yeah, how’s that strange?”

Hermione had her hands on her hips, and he certainly hadn’t missed _that_ look on her. It made him feel, well, like a schoolboy again. “Harry, you told Professor Slughorn that the most effective means of neutralising Streeler venom was—and I quote—‘thirteen’. When he asked if you were sure, you said you thought so, but you’d need to check your calculations first.”

Oh yeah. He’d been a bit preoccupied with the realisation that Malfoy wasn’t among the Slytherins taking Potions in their combined Seventh- and Eighth-year class. Had he skipped it the first time around as well, and Harry simply hadn’t noticed? It was possible—Harry had had rather a lot on his mind in Eighth Year, and Malfoy had not exactly been someone whose companionship he’d gone out of his way to court.

But he was pretty sure he’d have remembered Potions being anything but a practise in misery, even with Slughorn’s favouritism; perhaps Malfoy had just missed the day’s lecture for some reason.

“Er, well, now that she mentions it…” Ron finally allowed with an apologetic smile, “You _have_ been a little off. Just yesterday you wouldn’t shut up about having to get permission to use the Quidditch Pitch, even just for a bit of solo flying, but you didn’t make a peep about it today, not even when Gin returned your goggles at dinner.” He frowned, brows drawing together in worry. “You sure you’re feelin’ okay, mate?”

No, no he was not feeling well at all. He scrubbed a hand over his face, checked again they had their privacy and that the _Muffliato_ was doing its work, and decided there was nothing to it but to just rip the plaster off and get it out there. 

He sighed. “Right, well. There’s a very good reason, I think, for my behaving strangely today. And I don’t expect you to believe me at the outset, because I don’t know that I really believe it _myself_, but at least keep an open mind? And—maybe don’t freak out _right_ away? Because there’s a not insignificant chance this is entirely a hallucination or a dream or something, and I’m—”

“Would you just spit it out?” Ron said, a bit strained, and he sat up straighter, no longer lounging lazily. 

Hermione nodded, lips firm and brown eyes impossibly large in her face, like she could sense Harry was in desperate need of assistance and couldn’t wait to get cracking. God he loved her. “Yes, Harry, what’s going on? You’re starting to frighten me.”

He took a deep breath. How was he meant to word this? _I’m from the future_ just sounded absurd, and he wanted to be direct about this business, but he also didn’t want to have to talk Ron down from hysterical guffaws that would, if history was anything to go by, last well into the wee hours. “I think…I think something happened to me. And now I’m not…well, I’m not where I’m supposed to be, I think.”

Hermione and Ron shared a look. “…I don’t get it,” Ron said.

“I mean to say—I’m not really supposed to be _here_. Like, at Hogwarts.” After a beat, he added, “You aren’t either, in fact.”

“What do you mean?” Ron chuckled nervously. “Of course we’re supposed to be here. Listen, I know you weren’t keen to come back—”

“That’s not what I’m—” Harry sighed, shoulders slumping. God, he really was going to have to just _say it_, wasn’t he? “…What year is it?”

“What _year_?” Ron said, voice going a little funny, and Harry could already feel him taking a mental step back. “…It’s 1998, mate. Been that way for nine or so months now.” He squinted at Harry. “You _sure_ your head’s not hurting?”

Harry grimaced. “My head’s fine, I told you.” Which was not entirely the truth, but he didn’t think Ron was referring to stress headaches at the moment.

Hermione bit her lip, studying Harry with a curious gaze. “…What year do _you_ think it is, Harry?” 

He leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms, and ran a tongue over his teeth. Nothing for it. “…Well obviously I think it’s 1998 as well. But…”

“But…?” Hermione prompted, worrying at the sleeve of her robes. 

“But it’s not supposed to be.”

“Not supposed to be?” Ron eased to his feet, like he thought he might need to make a break for it very soon. Harry did not entirely blame him. “You’re not _supposed_ to be here, and it’s not _supposed_ to be 1998—what’s it _supposed_ to be, then?”

He looked at the both of them in turn. “…It’s _supposed_ to be 2005, and I’m _supposed_ to be turning in my report to Robards and then picking up an order of offal scraps for my Beezilbud from the butcher near my flat.”

Ron boggled. “Robards—the _Head Auror_?”

Hermione had other concerns. “When did you get a _Beezilbud_? And _where_ did you get one?”

“Yes, the Head Auror. My boss. And Neville got me one as a flat-warming gift when I moved in to my new place. Said I couldn’t kill it even if I tried.” Were neither of them going to even _touch_ the ‘2005’ bit?

“Wait, I’m confused…” Ron leaned against the back of the chair, gripping it tight for support. “You’re an Auror?” Ron’s expression dissolved into one of utter betrayal. “We were supposed to join up _together_! You told Kingsley—”

“I’m not one right _now_, clearly!” Harry huffed. This conversation was getting away from him. “Just—listen to me, yeah? It’s 1998 right now, for you two. But not for me. Where I’m from, it’s 2005, and I’m an Auror, and I have a Beezilbud named Lucille growing on my balcony, and I’ve somehow, someway, been…” He searched for a word that didn’t make him sound like he ought to be Lockhart’s new roommate. “Transplanted.”

Ron just stared at him, still wearing that expression of mixed confusion and hurt, so Harry placed all of his hope in Hermione’s ink-stained hands—and watched as what Harry was saying finally started to sink in.

“You’re…” She swallowed. “You’re trying to say you’ve been…”

“Don’t say sent back in—”

“Sent back in time?”

He winced. Yup, it sounded just as ridiculous when she said it aloud as it had in Harry’s head. “Something like that. I think. Maybe? I’m not sure, really.”

“Wait—” Ron decided to join the conversation again. “Wait, you’re trying to tell us you _time-travelled_? Like, travelled _through time_?” He didn’t look betrayed anymore; now it was back to the wary, hunted expression that suggested he was about to go run down Pomfrey and have Harry carted off by strapping orderlies for his own good. “Went _back in time_?”

Harry slid down, back against the wall, and slumped against his drawn-up knees. “No matter how many different ways you put it, it’s not going to change what I’m saying, Ron…”

“But that’s just—well, I mean, mate.” Ron laughed, nervousness hitching his voice. “You’re having us on.”

“I’m not,” Harry said. “I told you you wouldn’t believe me, and I don’t blame you, but I _am_ being serious.”

“All right,” Ron said. “Prove it; tell us something about the future.”

“How would that prove anything? I don’t remember any important events happening at—” He cast a quick _Tempus_. “—At 10:47 PM on a random Tuesday in…when is it?”

“September…” Hermione said distantly, brows furrowed in thought. “We want to believe you Harry, you must know that, but what you’re suggesting…” She shrugged apologetically. “It sounds a bit far-fetched?”

“Why would I _make this up_?”

“No one’s accusing you of anything malicious,” she soothed. “Only, you said yourself you aren’t even sure it’s real, that perhaps it was a hallucination. Are you _certain_ this isn’t something to do with your headache—”

“I _don’t have a_—” Harry threw his hands in the air, letting his head fall back against the wall. “I’m Harry James Potter, I just turned twenty-five, I’m an Auror—I’m a _good_ one. I was assigned to shadow an Unspeakable for security and backup for a meeting with a mark. Said mark turned out to be an exotic magical animal smuggler, trying to offload something called an _Ouroboros_? Our cover got blown, there was a fire fight, the Ouroboros got loose and it _bit me on the bloody nose_.” He pointed a finger to his nose, which throbbed painfully in response.

Ron leaned forward to get a better look, squinting a bit. “…Pretty sure that’s just a pimple.”

Harry showed him a finger. “Anyway, it knocked me out, and when I woke up—I was eighteen again and back at Hogwarts. I don’t know what happened, I don’t know _why_ it happened. I just know I’m here, and I’m not supposed to be, and I’m telling you two this in the hopes you might have some clue as to…how to get me back where I’m meant to be, I guess.” 

He felt drained, like his plug had just been pulled and his battery had run down. He’d expected some pushback from them, true, but he thought they’d been through enough fantastic situations together they’d give him the benefit of the doubt. Without any immediate proof, though, what was he meant to do?

Hermione was being awfully quiet, still frowning and tapping her chin, and she was staring at Harry oddly—trying to pick him apart, or else put him back together. “…An Ouroboros? An _Ouroboros_ bit you?”

He hadn’t gotten the name wrong, had he? “Er—yeah? Pretty sure that’s what he said the thing was. Just looked like your bog-standard snake to me, but it was—”

“Biting its own tail?”

Harry’s heart lightened. “Yeah! Yeah, exactly.” He struggled back to his feet, heart racing. “You believe me?”

Ron whirled on her, boggling. “You _believe him_?”

“Well it’s just—” She clearly didn’t like being put on the spot like this. “That’s an incredibly obscure magical creature! It isn’t mentioned in _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_—I don’t think it’s referenced in _any_ of the books in the Hogwarts Library actually.” She gave Harry an apologetic look. “No offence, Harry, but I can’t imagine you’d know anything about that creature unless you’d already tangled with it…” 

She had a good point, admittedly, but he somehow managed to still be offended. One down, one to go. He looked to Ron, entreating. “I’m not having you on, mate. And I haven’t conked my head or anything—at least I don’t think I have…” He shrugged. “Just, I’ve got _seven years’_ worth of memories in my mind now, so unless they just sprang up out of the aether overnight, I can’t think of where they might’ve come from.”

Ron still did not look entirely convinced, but at least he didn’t look like he thought Harry had gone ‘round the twist anymore. “…It’s mental, what you’re suggesting.”

“Not really all that more ‘mental’ than a Time-Turner,” Hermione reasoned, looking only marginally more comfortable with Harry’s new reality than Ron. “Though I confess I’m not all that familiar with the Ouroboros, or how its abilities work. No one really is, to my knowledge—what little information is out there is largely a confusing mixture of fact, fiction, and purposeful obfuscation.”

Ron wrinkled his nose. “Purposeful _what_?”

“People have made up tales deliberately designed to confuse, so no one can tell what’s truth and what’s legend. Presumably because while devices like Time-Turners are heavily guarded to prevent their falling into the wrong hands, magical creatures with similar abilities are much less well-regulated and might make tempting targets if anyone knew what they were truly capable of.”

Harry felt the hope that had begun to blossom on his chest wilt just a little. “You…you don’t know anything about the Ouroboros, then? Like…maybe how to get me back?”

Hermione bit her lip. “Well, as I said, it’s an incredibly rare creature that’s been the subject of distressingly little research. I only saw it mentioned briefly in the reading Professor McGonagall assigned me back in Third Year when I requested permission to use a Time-Turner.”

Harry’s heart leapt. “Wait—a Time-Turner! Maybe we can use one to…” But Hermione was already shaking her head.

“You said where you’re from, it’s 2005? Seven years hence?” Harry nodded. “Well, this is all moot, since I’m pretty sure we ruined the Ministry’s entire stock when we broke into the Department of Mysteries—” Harry and Ron shared identical winces. “But Time-Turners only work going _backwards_ for one, and only up to five hours. Now, theoretically, if you could stabilise the Hour-Reversal Charm, you could travel back further and stay for longer, but I wouldn’t know where to _begin_ trying to adjust one to send a bearer into the _future_.” Her eyes went wide as she shook her head in confusion. “I mean, the future itself is in a constant state of flux—I don’t think it’d even be physically possible for a human to survive the journey, what with all the uncertainty involved. There are actually a lot of interesting theories on—”

Harry closed his eyes and released a loud, long sighing groan—which shut Hermione right up.

“…Sorry,” she said in a small voice. “Anyway, I just don’t think a Time-Turner would help, even if we had access to one.” She wrung her hands, distressed. “You said you were with an Unspeakable on your…er, mission? Where you came across the Ouroboros?” Harry nodded. “Perhaps we ought to try and contact the Unspeakables then? They’ve got a whole room for studying Time, after all. If anyone knows how to sort you out, it’ll be them, don’t you think?”

Harry had indeed thought about it—and he already knew where he stood on the matter. He shook his head. “…I’d rather not, if we can at all avoid it. I doubt it’d do much good, besides. The Unspeakable I was with made it sound like they were trying to get their hands on the creature for research purposes. At best, they might know how the venom works but not necessarily how to counteract it, and at worst…” 

He trailed off, and Ron picked up the thread with a dark look: “At worst, they’d probably want to _study_ him. Pick his brain—maybe literally.”

Harry gave a nodding grimace. “They’re all stuffy academics down there on Level 9. They’d get more out of putting me under glass than trying to send me back to when I came from.” He shook his head again, more firmly this time. “They’re a last resort. If we have to ‘resort’ to anything at all.” He drew closer to his friends, laying one hand each on their shoulders. “You’re who I trust to help me sort this out. Can I count on you to at least try? If we all three put our heads together, run down leads…well it can’t be any more difficult than hunting for Horcruxes all across the English countryside, can it?”

Hermione still looked uncertain. “I—well of course we want to help, and we _will_. But you must understand that we’re _ludicrously_ underqualified to look into this sort of thing ourselves.” She fixed him with those big brown eyes, searching his face. “If we can’t solve this on our own, you _have_ to at least take this to McGonagall, if you won’t go straight to the Unspeakables.”

She was afraid, he knew, that he would be putting all his faith in her, and when she couldn’t fix him, he’d resent her. Which was utter tripe, but he supposed their trials with the Horcruxes were fresh enough in her mind she didn’t want to go through anything similar again quite so soon. 

He met her gaze with steady confidence. “I swear, if for whatever reason you feel entirely unequal to this task and you’re certain that the Ministry can do more for me than you with all your books and bright ideas and connections can, I’ll turn myself over to their care. But I’ve had enough dealings with the Department of Mysteries over the years to know I’d rather take my chances with you and Ron. Plus—” He attempted to appeal to her more logical centres of reasoning, “the less I change in the past the better, right? So I should avoid interacting with anyone beyond those I absolutely need to in order to sort myself out.”

Hermione’s lips thinned, and she nodded. “…Yes, I suppose you’re right. Really, you probably shouldn’t have even told _us_, but so long as we keep any sharing of unnecessary information to a minimum…” She sighed. “All right. I’m in.”

Harry looked to Ron, expectant, and received a sputter of offence in return. “Well of _course_ I’m in! Even if I’m not a hundred per cent convinced you haven’t been huffing some of Slughorn’s more exotic ingredients stores.”

Harry grinned, feeling for the first time since he’d woken up that morning that things might not be quite so hopeless as they seemed. His best friends had gotten him out of far worse jams than this, after all; Hermione had too little confidence in her own brilliance, and Ron had moments of insight that fair astounded. 

“I promise,” he assured Hermione with a shake of her shoulder. “If we haven’t found a way to get me back to where I belong by Christmas, then I’ll march myself straight to the Ministry and let them do their worst.”

She didn’t seem too enthused with such a relaxed timeline, and Harry wasn’t either, quite honestly, but he really _really_ didn’t want to turn himself over to the Unspeakables. F would no doubt be a member of the team that picked him apart, and he was not keen to give her new material on which to lecture him. _“I’m sure I must have told you not to interfere with my mission, and yet you went and got yourself thrown into your own past! Classic Harry Potter!”_

“By Christmas,” she agreed, removing the _Muffliato_ and dragging her feet back towards the sofas surrounding the fireplace to finish up her neglected reading. “And not a _minute_ later.”


	4. Chapter 4

Harry’s subsequent days reliving his Eighth Year went decidedly more smoothly than his first, now that he had a decent idea of what was going on and the help of Hermione and Ron to navigate what might have otherwise been a tricky timetable. He hadn’t remembered taking quite so many classes, nor had he missed the homework load, but there was nothing for it, not if he wanted to avoid doing irreparable damage to the timeline. If he flunked his N.E.W.T.s here, would he find himself in some other line of work than an Aurorship once he returned to his proper time? It was an interesting thought, but not one Harry was keen to explore in any great depth. Besides, he’d promised Hermione a Christmas deadline, and he meant to (try and) keep it.

Another thing he found he had not missed was _research_. Particularly research into topics so esoteric or well-guarded that even casual references to them could be found only in books locked away in the Restricted Section, if they were in any Hogwarts Library books at all. Blessedly, Hermione still had her personal travelling library tucked away in her old beaded bag, and he spent his evenings with his friends nestled in the reading nook—that was what it was for, after all—behind a _Muffliato_ combing through tomes dry as old leaves for information on fantastic creatures with equally fantastic abilities. It was, at least, a step up from Perkins’s smelly tent.

Despite her misgivings about not taking the matter of Harry’s predicament straight to the Headmistress or the Ministry and continued warnings that she felt the topic beyond her ken, Hermione seemed pleased to have a ‘project’ once again, though if Harry recalled correctly, she _did_ already have a project of her own that ought to have taken precedence: her N.E.W.T. thesis, which he thought involved some manner of S.P.E.W. offshoot that she eventually cobbled into a real sub-Department at the Ministry. 

She’d no doubt already been well into the drafting stage when Harry had ‘arrived’, but what were the chances she ran out of time to do a proper job of it and failed her interview, or decided to change her topic altogether? It wasn’t merely Harry’s choices that could change the future, he was realising, but his friends’ as well—but when he brought the matter to her attention, she clapped her hands over her ears and hissed at him to shut his mouth.

“I don’t want to hear it,” she said. “Who _knows_ what might happen?”

In fact, she wouldn’t let Harry talk to her or Ron about _anything_ that happened to them in their future, dourly expressing concerns about the dangers of altering the course of history, because who knew if Ouroboros venom acted in the same fashion as a Time-Turner, or if the underlying magic was merely convergent. Harry didn’t quite understand what that had to do with anything, and while he agreed with her in principle that things ought to happen as they were meant to happen, there were more than a few events he found himself wishing terribly he could warn them of.

Ron, though, did not share Hermione’s fear about mucking up the timeline. He understandably did not want to blatantly defy his girlfriend, but he was curious, as most anyone might have been in his position, and tried to tease little tidbits out of Harry at most every opportunity, edging around Hermione’s gag order with skills that Harry recalled would later earn him top marks in their Fabrication and Interrogation module during Ron’s brief flirtation with Magical Law Enforcement.

“So, you know I don’t mean to pry and all…” Ron said, nearly one week after Harry’s ‘arrival’. “And you can tell me off, if you like, say it’s none of my business…”

Harry took his time while Ron dithered to decide on his next move; even seven years’ practice hadn’t instilled in Harry the skill to give Ron so much as a challenge in Wizarding Chess, and he was sat here still getting his arse beaten by someone over half a decade his junior. His knights looked to be on the verge of revolt, and his bishops weren’t helping matters as they bickered with him over every move he made. “I don’t expect that’ll stop you from asking, all the same.”

Ron snorted softly, rubbing at his neck. “It’s just…I noticed you’ve kinda been…well, giving Gin a wide berth the past few days.”

Harry looked up, holding his squirming queen in his hand. “‘Gin’…Ginny? Your sister?”

Ron’s brows shot up into his hair. “…Guess that answers _that_ question.”

Oh. _Fuck_, had he broken up with her properly yet? He strained to remember, largely because it’d mostly been a slow dissolution rather than a clean break. Had it happened before or after they’d returned to Hogwarts? He couldn’t rightly recall. He’d interacted with Ginny on a few occasions so far, entirely genial in the doing, and now wondered if he’d unthinkingly been a gigantic horse’s arse not giving her the attention she might rightly have been expecting. “I—” he started, trying to organise his thoughts. Apologise, that was what he should be doing. “I didn’t mean—”

But Ron was already waving him off, a bit insistent, given Hermione had glanced over at them with a suspicious look while she worked on the same Transfiguration essay Harry and Ron were currently ‘taking a break’ from. “I told you, you could say it’s none of my business.”

And it _was_ none of his business, but he also kind of deserved an explanation, didn’t he? If it was happening all of a sudden. “I’m sorry,” he said, keeping his voice down while still trying to appear as penitent as possible. “I…I didn’t realise we were meant to still be together here.”

Ron gave him a sad little smile. “…I dunno that you _are_, to be honest. I know you and her had a talk of sorts, after Fred’s…well, after. But you never said what it was about, and you two’ve mostly been kind of the same since then, so I thought maybe you were just keeping any _funny business_ private. Which I want you to know I _greatly_ appreciated.”

“Er, you’re welcome?”

The sad little smile faded a bit, reluctant acceptance settling in its place. “Guess you two…don’t really work things out, then?” 

Harry shifted uncomfortably, quickly moving a piece on the board just to allay Hermione’s suspicions. Ron couldn’t disguise the disappointment in his voice, and Harry hated having to break it to him like this. They’d never really discussed it before, Harry and Ginny finally putting to bed a relationship that hadn’t been as such for a long while, and he really didn’t want to discuss it _now_ either, but it was out there, hanging between them, and Harry couldn’t just _leave it_.

He tried to paint it in the best light he could. Ron had lost rather a lot these past few months, and Harry didn’t want to be the one to have to smash this little bit of hope he’d evidently been kindling: that maybe, one day, they’d be brothers by law instead of just best mates. He licked his lips, watching the board as he waited for Ron to make his move. “Maybe…maybe the Harry who was here, before me, maybe the Harry you grew up with might’ve done things different—set things right again and gotten back on with her properly, but…” He shook his head, almost imperceptibly. “I mean, it wasn’t—difficult. That is, it was amicable? We just…never got back into that proper rhythm, you know? She was different after the war, after…after Fred. And so was I, after everyone else.” He forced a little smile, lifting his brows to look at Ron. “If it makes you feel any better, I haven’t really been seeing anyone else since.” 

He didn’t add that Ginny, by contrast, had _definitely_ been seeing someone—Lisbet, one of her Harpies teammates, going on three years now—because how did you tell your best mate his little sister was Seeking for both teams if he didn’t already know? No, no that was _definitely_ not one of the things he felt compelled to ‘warn’ Ron about. It was and had always been Ginny’s business, and who knew how Harry running his mouth about her private life might muck up any future that awaited her?

But Ron just frowned at him, drawing back. “Why would that make me feel better?” His expression fell a bit, and Harry could see the familiar signs of pity creeping in at the edges. “…Mate, you know I’m not pissed off at you, right? I mean, if it wasn’t working, then it wasn’t working. Even me and Hermione, we discussed…taking a break, just for a bit. After everything. What with her folks and Fred, we thought it might be a bit too much, to deal with all that _and_ have to try and support each other, but…” He shrugged, scratching at his cheek. “We couldn’t do it. We were both miserable, there was no two ways about it. I think…that’s how it should be, if you’re with the person you’re meant to be with, y’know? So if you and Gin didn’t feel that way…maybe that’s just how it’s got to be.”

And now, Harry regretted, _sorely_, never having discussed this with his own Ron. He felt emotion thick in his throat and swallowed. “…Yeah, guess so.”

Ron took one of Harry’s pawns. “So…no one else? Really?”

Harry coughed softly, clearing his throat. “Er, well—there were a couple of charity dates—”

“_Charity_ dates?”

“Yeah, like—a bachelor auction sort of deal? For charity.” Ron was giving him a bemused look—quite the same one Ron had given him the first time the subject of _charity dates_ had been proposed by a member of some Ministry sub-Committee or other who’d been directed Harry’s way by Hermione, of all people. Thinking back on it now, Harry was reconsidering his decision to vote her onto the Wizengamot. “Then the odd dinner friends set me up on, but…no one serious.”

“No one? In—you said seven years?”

“I’ve been busy!” Harry said, feeling a bit defensive. “Dunno if I mentioned it, but I’m an Auror, yeah? It’s ruddy hard work. And the schedule’s shit—and who’s going to want to go through the stress of wondering if I’m going to come home in one piece or not every evening?”

Ron paled. “Well, Hermione, I hope…?” Panic flickered across his features. “We don’t…I mean—we…we work out, yeah? Me and her?”

“What? Oh.” Fuck. Of course they worked out, they were great, but now it came down to it, actually telling Ron something _concrete_ about his own future, Harry had to wonder if Hermione didn’t have the right of it: whatever Harry said, it was going to affect their future, wasn’t it? Or had this all already happened in the past, so it really didn’t matter what he said, they’d be just fine?

For that matter, would _anything_ he did right now wind up making a difference, in the end? He certainly didn’t recall any lengthy blackouts back in Eighth Year, but then again, this wasn’t like what’d happened with the Time-Turner. When he and Hermione had used the device, he’d existed _simultaneously_ with his past self, whereas here he had clearly slipped back into his eighteen-year-old body. Had he switched places? Was there an eighteen-year-old Harry Potter wandering around the future in Harry’s original body, neglecting Lucille and getting results back from the Potions Analysts without the faintest clue as to how to parse them? Fuck, by the time he found his way back to 2005, he might be out of a job.

He decided to try and be as circumspect as possible, just to play it safe: “You’re fine.” There. That sounded ambiguous enough.

“…Oh, well. Okay. Then see? Clearly she can stomach my dashing and daring Auror career!” 

Harry gave him a tight smile, bereft of the heart to explain to him he hadn’t even made it out of the training programme before he’d decided his brother needed him more than wizarding Britain did. It’d been the right call, and Harry too often found himself wishing someone needed _him_ more than wizarding Britain did, but this Ron right here still had big dreams about being a hot-shot badarse in scarlet robes. He’d figure out where he was most needed soon enough on his own.

But that wasn’t the lie that weighed most heavily on Harry as he watched Ron clean the board, picking off a piece each time Harry made a move.

He _was_ busy, and it _was_ hard work—but there were plenty of Aurors, juniors and veterans alike, who had significant others. Wives, husbands, girlfriends, boyfriends, people they fancied—they made it work, if they wanted it to. Like with any high-stress job, it was a matter of wanting it badly enough, or else just being content with the way things were. Not everyone needed someone, and that was fine too—Luna had her plants and her Kneazle and a half-dozen creatures Harry didn’t even know the names of in her little garden-farm, and she still seemed perfectly content. 

But Harry wasn’t other Aurors, and he wasn’t Luna. He was just a ghost. He floated through others’ lives, trying to live vicariously through his friends and family but never quite managing to live his own life himself. It felt…beyond him. Like he’d fallen into a deep, dark hole, like he’d been stuck there since the war, and everyone around him had finally managed to claw their way back out _except_ him.

And what kind of person would ask someone else—someone they were meant to care for—to crawl down into that hole with them?

“You sure you’re from the future, mate?” Ron marvelled when Harry’s king finally found himself cornered. “A seven-year head-start, and you’re still playing like you just learned the game yesterday.”

“Bugger off,” Harry grumbled, shooing the pieces back into their box. His own pieces seemed only too happy to be rid of him. “I’m just out of practise, that’s all.”

“Well future me has _clearly_ not been doing his job. I haven’t got kids, have I? Maybe I’ve just been too busy molding little future champions of my own to bother with—”

“_Ronald Weasley_,” Hermione hissed, whapping him sharply on the crown. She’d practically teleported from the other side of the room, so quickly had she crept up on Harry. Were his observation skills already going rusty? Even if his other self wasn’t stuck in the future, ruining his career, Harry might torpedo it himself once he returned. “We’re _not supposed_ to ask Harry about the future! We agreed!”

“I _know_,” Ron groaned, “But you can’t tell me you aren’t curious!”

“I’m not,” she sniffed.

“That’s a load, it is! You’re curious, you just don’t want to admit it.”

“I’m _not_,” she insisted. “Because even knowing something as insignificant as what we have for breakfast tomorrow might have drastic unintended consequences!”

“Well, sure, there’s that risk, _but_—” Ron’s eyes brightened. “We could _also_ find out if anything _bad_ happens and then take steps to stop it! Think of it like—like _slightly more accurate_ Divination, if you like!”

“Oh, well if it’s _like Divination_, then let’s!” She rolled her eyes and turned on Harry now, evidently deeming Ron a lost cause. “You _promised_, Harry.”

He raised his hands in surrender. “I wasn’t saying anything on purpose! It was just—conversation! You can’t expect me to take a vow of silence for however long I’m here, can you?”

“Of course not, but…” She sighed, settling onto the cushion next to Ron. “I’m _serious_, Harry. You mustn’t tell us anything. The temptation may be there, but you _have_ to fight it, no matter how much good you may think it’ll do. Some things are just…they’re meant to be. Good or bad. And you shouldn’t try to do anything to stop them. Depending on which theory you subscribe to, it’ll either be for nought, or you might just make things _worse_.”

Harry grunted in reluctant agreement, scrubbing a hand through his hair—

And then froze, his whole body gone stiff, like he’d just had a Body Bind slapped on him. 

He sprang to his feet, heart pounding a thunderous tattoo in his chest and breaths coming quick and feverish.

He’d been so preoccupied with _when_ he’d come back, he hadn’t stopped to think about _why_.

Doyle had said, hadn’t he? That when you got bitten by the Ouroboros, you got flung back to whenever you’d been thinking about. That you could _guide_ where you wound up, just by fixing a point in your mind when the venom took effect.

What if he _couldn’t_ make things worse? 

What if he could _only_ make them better?

He whirled around, both Hermione and Ron staring at him in wary confusion. “H—Harry? Are you all right…?”

Harry licked his lips, nodding fervently, and praying his voice didn’t hitch when he asked, “Where’s Malfoy?”


	5. Chapter 5

Hermione and Ron were, understandably, more than a little confused by Harry’s sudden but distressingly familiar preoccupation with the whereabouts of Draco Malfoy. Hermione begged off, stating a flat refusal to get involved in ‘this business again’, as she put it, and Ron was just sat there looking broken.

“I thought we were done with all this back in Sixth Year…” he’d lamented, before adding with a wary frown, “…Or does he do something horrible soon, and we ought to try and prevent it from happening?”

But Harry was going to try and keep his word to Hermione this time, and he waved off any concerns. True enough, Malfoy _did_ do something horrible—but it wouldn’t happen for years yet, and perhaps if Harry stepped in now, gave him that helping hand Malfoy would never ask for on his own, then that something horrible would never come to pass. It wasn’t just a matter of saving _Malfoy’s_ life, but the lives of the victims of Neo-Death Eater attacks Malfoy had been a part of as well. There was a body count Harry might be able to do something about, so how could he not at least _try_?

His mind was whirring with possibilities—was this actually why he was here? At this time, in this place? Was this a second chance? A chance to do, well, _something_? What that something was, he wasn’t entirely sure, and he knew Malfoy would not make it easy, since everything Harry knew about him said that he was bound and determined to fuck up his life, outside forces be damned. But if Harry was here, _actually_ here, for however long or short it wound up being, he wanted to try and make it count. And ‘making it count’ certainly didn’t involve gently hinting to Ron that he really should reconsider asking Hermione to marry him during the climax of a Cannons match, as it would not wind up nearly as romantic as he might think it to be.

First, though: he had to _find_ Malfoy—a task that turned out to be a sight more difficult than Harry had anticipated, as they had no classes together. Harry was taking all of the N.E.W.T. courses he would need for Auroring, and Malfoy was taking what seemed to be every class Harry _wasn’t_, like Ancient Runes and Arithmancy and _Divination_ of all things (pointless; Harry could tell him _exactly_ what his future held—in fact, he wholly intended to do so), according to Hermione, who did incidentally share a few classes with him.

He wasn’t even taking Potions, his absence the first day Harry had arrived being a result of his not being enrolled rather than simply feeling under the weather or a similar excuse. Though with Snape dead and Slughorn decidedly uninterested in ‘collecting’ Malfoy—what good would a marked Death Eater do him in the long run but bring shame?—he supposed it shouldn’t have been such a surprise. 

This meant, though, that it was rather difficult to pin Malfoy down, short of confronting him in the middle of the Great Hall, and Harry wasn’t quite so desperate as to interrupt dinner just to tug Malfoy aside for a chat about futures not-yet-come-to-pass and how to prevent them from ever manifesting. 

He wasn’t sure what he would say, once he finally cornered the slippery git—he sincerely doubted Malfoy would accept the notion that Harry had time-travelled from the future with quite the ease his best friends had shown—he only knew, with mounting certainty, that he needed to say, to _do_, something. 

Because he was here, however fantastically it had been managed, at a point in time and space where what he said and did mattered, really _mattered_. Not for humanity or the wizarding world or anyone he called friend or family—but for this one, utterly insignificant person. He could do something to change their life for the better, to help them when no one else gave two shits—Harry of the present included. And that was somehow more important to him than anything else right now, more important even than finding his own way back.

He had to laugh at that—which earned him a strange look from Professor Flitwick. Maybe he’d missed this saviour high after all, as he’d been too often accused (even by Malfoy himself).

One week dragged into two, though, and Harry _still_ could not orchestrate a meeting between himself and the only other student in the entire school who seemed to be going out of his way to avoid Harry. Not that Harry could blame him, but still. Harry only wanted to save his damn life, not propose. Yet even with Malfoy’s schedule practically memorised, he continued to just miss him coming out of one of his classes, or got the slip when he tailed him around a corner. It was driving Harry fucking _mental_.

“I _swear_ he wasn’t this difficult to find back in Sixth Year,” Harry groaned, one arm thrown over his eyes as he lounged on a chaise in the Common Room. “Maybe I’ve gotten rusty…”

“Aren’t you an Auror?” Ron snorted, taking the notion of Harry being once again ‘obsessed with Malfoy’s whereabouts’ shockingly well. Once the initial horror had worn off, he’d mostly settled into a mindset of being resigned to Harry’s quirks and left him to it. “Seems like tracking down a suspect would be something you’re meant to be a dab hand at. Didn’t you say you were _good_?”

“I _am_ good!” Harry huffed, forcing himself up onto his elbows. “But—well, we mostly use spellwork that’s…not exactly legal to use outside of sanctioned investigations…” It would really put a damper on his future plans if he went and got himself arrested two years before he’d be authorised to actually cast any such spells.

“Mm. So you’ll _stalk_ a bloke, but a Tracking Charm’s right out? Sure, mate.” Ron turned back to his reading—which said something, that he’d rather review his Transfiguration notes when Hermione was nowhere to be seen than help Harry corner Malfoy. “If you’re so fussed about it, though, why don’t you just use the map?”

“Map?”

“Marauder’s Map. You’ve still got it, don’t you?”

Oh joyous _fuck_! He definitely did! Or well, he should, shouldn’t he? “You think it’ll be in my trunk?” He didn’t wait for Ron to respond, already scaling the steps up to the dormitories two at a time. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought to consult it himself—but then again, it’d been _seven years_ since he’d had any cause to use it. Ron was right, though: the Map would tell him where Malfoy was, and perhaps Harry might finally be able to figure out what he’d been up to these past couple of weeks that he’d been so difficult to locate.

He dove for the new trunk he’d purchased for his return to Hogwarts, idly wondering what had become of the old one; he’d left it with the Dursleys back on Privet Drive, and presumably Uncle Vernon had chucked it to the curb the moment they’d been cleared to safely return following Harry’s flight. He still kept in touch with Dudley, their interactions mostly amounting to a Christmas card exchange, but they didn’t talk that much about their childhood—a self-preservation tactic on both their parts, probably—and Harry was all right with that. 

He found the Map tucked inside the cover of _Hogwarts: A History_ and quickly shook it open, solemnly swearing he was up to no good and watching as the Map revealed itself in scrolling, scrawling lines of intricate inkwork. He marvelled, as if for the first time, at the way the outline of the castle bled over the pages as the good Messieurs wished Harry luck in his endeavours. He liked to think the Marauders (well, most of them) would approve of his using the Map to save someone’s life, even if he wasn’t entirely sure their adult counterparts would condone his tinkering with the timeline in the doing.

But his wonder quickly faded, like he’d taken an _Aguamenti _to the face, because nowhere in the dozens of little dots wandering around the castle did he see one labelled _Draco Malfoy_. He searched the Slytherin Common Room and its attached dorms down in the Dungeon, he checked the classrooms and Library and Kitchens, he even peeked into the Hospital Wing and the other Houses’ Common Rooms—Malfoy _wasn’t there_. 

So where the fuck _was_ he?

Perhaps he had travelled off-campus for some reason—never mind that it was, presently, past ten in the evening. Maybe he’d had a probation meeting, maybe his mother was sick and he’d been granted compassionate leave, maybe he was moonlighting tending bar in Hogsmeade to make a bit of coin. He couldn’t avoid Harry forever, not now he had his secret weapon.

And yet, another week later, Harry felt he was no closer to managing a face-to-face with Malfoy than he’d been when he first arrived. He was always either in class, where Harry generally couldn’t get to him on account of similar timetables, or in his dorm, where again Harry couldn’t get to him (he wasn’t going to stoop to using the Cloak _just_ yet), or—still baffling—absent from the Map altogether, as if he’d up and vanished. He couldn’t be Apparating, and Harry couldn’t think of any engagement that would require he Floo anywhere with such regularity.

He might have sat there, banging his head against the matter fruitlessly, had he not once checked the Map, just before bed, and caught Malfoy’s dot where it had absolutely no business being: heading for the stairwell at the end of the seventh-floor corridor.

It was then that it finally hit him, like the Hogwarts Express at full steam: Malfoy wasn’t missing because he’d left the castle. He was missing because he was in the_ very Unplottable _Room of Requirement.

His first thought was _Fuck, the Room still works?_ Because hadn’t Hermione said that Fiendfyre destroyed _everything_? Or was this a new version of the Room, perhaps, that the castle had created as it healed itself? He’d never bothered to try going back in his own Eighth Year, and now he wondered what might’ve happened if he _had_. Would he have run into Malfoy and set him on the proper course in life the _first_ time around?

Well, there was no use wasting time pondering might-have-beens when there were probably-will-bes to worry about. And there was only one sure way to find out what exactly had become of the Room of Requirement—or the Room of Hidden Things, he supposed.

He waited two more days, until they both had coinciding free periods, and after checking the Map one last time to be sure Malfoy’s dot was nowhere to be seen, he made his way, heart pounding, up to the seventh floor. Hoping that, new Room or not, it would open the same way it always had, Harry jogged up and down the empty hallway, repeating softly under his breath, “_I need to talk to Draco Malfoy so I can keep him from dying_,” like a mantra. He hoped the Room might recognise the honour in his endeavour and make an exception for him, if it turned out Malfoy had barred anyone else from entering as he had back in Sixth Year.

It either worked, or Malfoy had simply neglected to use any clever phrasing to keep others from finding his sanctuary this time, for on the third pass, a familiar door appeared on the wall, just opposite Barnabas the Barmy’s tattered tapestry. Harry stared at the well-worn brass doorknob, his heartbeat thundering in his ear, because this was it. His chance to set things right. Maybe that was why Auroring had lost its shine: he was saving faceless masses, people he didn’t _know_. The thrill of accomplishment _really _came when he put himself out there to help people he had a connection with, for better or worse. 

And that was something he suspected he was going to have to examine at length another time.

For now, he reached out, grabbed the doorknob, and tugged.

Harry promptly reconsidered his supposition that Malfoy hadn’t given the Room any particular instructions to keep people out when he was greeted with a strident, “What the _fuck_?” the moment he stepped over the threshold. No, that didn’t sound like the screech of someone who’d been expecting company _at all_.

Malfoy was laid out—sprawling, really—on a lime-green divan with a silver platter of chocolate truffles floating in the air just within reach. At Harry’s untimely entrance, he immediately sprang to his feet, the platter hitting the floor (covered in a hideous shag rug the same toxic shade as the sofa) in the same instant and sending sweets flying.

He gaped at Harry like he’d grown a second head and began sputtering incoherently, his dissemblance quite the sight: “_Potter_? How the fuck—_why _the fuck—” He released a keening little whine of frustration, then snatched up the platter and sent it flying at Harry’s head. “Get the _fuck_ out of here! _Now_!”

Harry ducked just in time, and the platter hit the wall behind him, clattering to the floor with a bright clang. He blinked, not so much shocked Malfoy had tried to attack him, but that he’d done so with a serving dish rather than a spell. 

He let Malfoy’s harsh words wash over him and, deciding he didn’t much feel like listening—he was here to tell Malfoy things, not to be told things by Malfoy—took in the Room.

If he hadn’t known they were on the seventh floor, precisely where the Room of Requirement was meant to be hidden, Harry might have _sworn_ he’d just walked into the Slytherin Common Room. Which didn’t seem to have changed all that much since his brief visit in Second Year, if the decor was anything to go by: grim and Gothic and ever so _green_. It was an assault on the eyes in shades of viridian and sour apple, and even the lamps in the sconces lining the wall seemed to have a toxic glow about them. Malfoy’s white-blond hair picked up all the wrong light, leaving him looking like he’d spent too long in a chlorinated swimming pool. 

Were the Slytherin returnees boarding here, then? There were a couple of them, he knew: Neville had Herbology with Zabini (who struck Harry as the least likely ever to pursue a career in Magibotany, but there it was), and Padma was partnered with Parkinson in Potions. Nott had been sent to live with distant relatives in the Americas after his dad had been chucked into Azkaban—where to Harry’s knowledge he was still rotting—and the Goyles had moved somewhere that ended in ‘-stan’ the summer after the war, never to be heard from again. Were there others? There had to have been more Slytherins in his year, but Harry was at a loss to remember their names, this far removed from his time at Hogwarts.

Maybe it was more difficult for the castle to fashion extra rooms down in the Dungeon than to expand space in a tower as had been done with Gryffindor—or maybe it was just that none of their Housemates, who probably had had nothing to do with Voldemort’s insurrection and were Very Nice Witches and Wizards, were keen to bunk with avowed Death Eaters and their flunkies, so they’d been banished here.

“Are you living here?” he asked, curious enough now to risk a question. Malfoy didn’t have any more serving dishes to fling at him, and even if he tried to get the Room to conjure more, Harry’s Seeker reflexes hadn’t entirely gone to pot.

Malfoy seized up, fists clenched at his side and lip curling. Harry thought his hair might be about to stand on end, and he kind of wanted to see that. “Get. _Out_.” He ground the order out with such seething ferocity, Harry was astonished his teeth didn’t crack. Blimey but he was _pissed off_.

Harry still wasn’t fussed, though, and he began to make a circuit of the room, running his eyes over the furnishings—three different sofas, all long enough to accommodate Malfoy’s gangly frame; a velvet-upholstered wing-back next to a claw-footed side table atop which were several textbooks; a roll-top writing desk with _more_ textbooks as well as sheaves of clean, new parchment, an assortment of exotic quills with golden nibs, and inkwells in three different pigments; and, as Harry had expected, a whole four-poster of ebony woodwork with a rich, plush bedspread and diaphanous curtains of moss-green hanging from the canopy. So Malfoy _did_ sleep here, at least some of the time.

“I asked a question,” Harry said mildly, picking up one of the quills—a peacock feather—and waving it about like a wand.

Malfoy followed him around the room with his eyes, intent and hunted. Harry saw a wand lying on the console table next to the atrocious lime-green divan and wondered if it was Malfoy’s.

“And I’ve told you to fuck off.”

“But I don’t want to fuck off.” 

And yeah, now Harry was pretty sure that was Malfoy’s wand, because he somehow tensed even further at Harry’s smarmy quip and looked like he was about to make a go for it. Which Harry was all right with; after six years of Auroring, he’d have to turn his badge in if he couldn’t beat a Hogwarts student in a duel.

Harry’s hand floated over the pocket where he had his own wand stashed, on reflex, but Malfoy didn’t draw. Perhaps he was remembering what had happened to the last person who’d challenged Harry to a duel. 

“…What do you _want_ then?” he bit out, spreading his stance and shifting backwards a bit when Harry leaned forward to rest against the back of the divan.

And that was a very good question, as Harry didn’t have a clue how to actually start this conversation. It’d been a difficult enough topic to broach with Ron and Hermione, and they _liked_ him, were inclined to believe him because they trusted him. 

Malfoy? Not so much.

Malfoy jumped on his hesitation in what looked to be a desperate bid for the upper hand, sneering with all the venom he could muster, “Here to slice me up some more? Leave a few more nasty scars? No more Professor Snape around to help you avoid a murder charge, but then—who’d honestly try our Blessed Saviour?”

He’d gone for what he’d presumed to be Harry’s softest, most vulnerable parts: a dreadful curse of horrific mutilation, unleashed in a moment of blind panic with no forethought whatsoever. _For enemies_ it had said, and Harry had wielded it so. The worst parts of Gryffindor—impetuosity, blindered single-mindedness—drawn to the surface and unleashed with a single breath.

And it hurt, still—cut just like Malfoy wanted it to. But it was a dull, aching throb that Harry felt…removed from. The pain was scarred over, because, well, for Harry, that nasty business had happened years and _years_ ago. He supposed that he’d never actually apologised to Malfoy for it—but it was not something that kept Harry up at night. No, ‘carved up Malfoy like a Christmas goose’ ranked rather low on the list of incidents headlining in Harry’s nightmares. Malfoy had, after all, survived that encounter.

He’d survived, and he was here, right now, spitting acid at Harry as living proof.

God, he was _alive_. This insufferable little racist prick with delusions of grandeur and a yellow stripe down his spine was _fucking alive_.

Which, of _course_ he was, but the thing was: the last time Harry’d seen him, he’d been about to _die_. _Had_ died, subsequently. Though if Harry were being honest, he rather thought Malfoy had stopped living long before Harry had been assaulted by Savage with a Probity Probe. 

This Malfoy, though? Oh, he had some _fight_ left in him. He wasn’t beaten down—well, not as badly as before at least. And he was so _young_! He’d thought the same about Hermione, how heavily the years had weighed on her, but Azkaban had been like an anvil around Malfoy’s neck, in that case. In prison, Malfoy had been thin and lank and so passive it had frightened Harry, honestly. Here, though, Malfoy was spitfire and fury and still a little bit frightening, like a big cat in a cage that, if you weren’t careful, would rake you across the face if you drew too near the bars.

He straightened, slipping his hands into his pockets, so Malfoy could see he wasn’t about to go for his wand. “I think we’ve both got enough scars between us already.”

Malfoy relaxed, just a hair, and Harry thought he seemed a bit disappointed he hadn’t gotten the fight he’d been baiting. Well, Harry had to be the adult here—what kind of example would it set if he went about thrashing unruly teenagers? Even if they had it coming.

He focused his thoughts and had the Room conjure him up a big, comfy armchair upholstered in vibrant ruby brocade with swirling gold ticking—right next to Malfoy’s divan. It looked scandalously out of place alongside the understated emerald and silver decor, which suited Harry just fine. With a sigh, he settled in, slapping his hands rhythmically on the padded arms and nodding his approval. He waved a finger around the Room. “Love what you’ve done with the place. It’s so…forbidding.”

Malfoy went all tight again, lips twitching like he had a whole host of oaths bottled up behind them, just aching to be unleashed. Instead, though, he said with waspish venom, “If you don’t like it, I believe I’ve already invited you to fuck right off.”

For that, Harry conjured an ottoman to go along with his armchair and put his feet up, scissoring them merrily. “Nah, forbidding’s not so terrible.”

Malfoy’s complexion took on a decidedly lavender hue as he purpled with rage, not unlike Uncle Vernon. “Get that—_monstrosity_—out of here!”

“Why?” Harry shifted forward, twisting to get a good look at the inside back, on which there was a handsome heraldic lion embroidered in gold. “I think it’s nice.” He ran his eyes around the room again, taking in just how much furniture and decor Malfoy had had the Room Conjure for him. “I’m actually kind of shocked this place still even works. I mean after the…whole…”

He trailed off, words dying on his lips as it dawned on him what an insensitive arse he was being. The harrowing Fiendfyre incident had happened _years_ back for him, but for Malfoy, it hadn’t even been six months since he’d nearly _died_ in here. Since his—Friend? Underling?—_had_ died. That considered, Harry didn’t see how Malfoy had brought himself to step inside at _all_, let alone hang around as it seemed he was doing. 

Still, it didn’t really give Harry leave to make light of the situation. There was taking the piss out of someone who deserved it—and then there was just being a dick. 

He scratched at his cheek, ducking his head. “Er…sorry, forget it. I can’t imagine you’d want to talk about…” Fuck, no, that was just more of the same. “That is, I’m…I’m sorry, I suppose. About Cra—”

“Bite your _fucking_ tongue,” Malfoy hissed, arms crossed tightly over his chest and shoulders hunched. He screwed up his features. “I don’t want to hear your pithy apologies. Save that sanctimonious shit for your sycophants.”

Harry nodded slowly. “All right… What would you rather hear then?”

Malfoy pointed to the door. “The sound of you dragging your speccy arse out of this Room.”

Harry regarded Malfoy for a long moment—he’d lost that distressing purple tone to his complexion and was now mostly just pale and wan, breathing hard and looking like he was trying very hard to master a wandless Killing Curse right about then. 

Perhaps this had not been the fantastic idea Harry had imagined, sneaking up on Malfoy unaware and barging into what was evidently a ‘private abode’ of sorts. Antagonising Malfoy was fun, always had been, and Harry wouldn’t deny he’d derived a certain degree of entertainment from this exchange, especially seeing as they were finally on even ground again. But ambushing him probably wasn’t the best tack to take if he wanted Malfoy…_receptive_. He was never going to get past _Fuck off, Potter_ with Malfoy walling himself off this way and refusing to listen to a word Harry had to say.

No, he’d definitely bungled this ‘reunion’ and would have to retreat and regroup to try again another day.

He stood to leave, hands in his pockets, and nodded cordially. “…Right. See you around, Malfoy.”

“Not likely,” Malfoy said, and he didn’t take his eyes off Harry until the door to the Room had at last shut between them, Malfoy’s little sanctuary once more his own. 

He decided he’d give Malfoy a few days to cool off and, in the meantime, brainstorm ways to get him to…well, _relax_ was probably the best Harry could hope for. ‘Open himself up to Harry’s sage advice’ was likely asking too much, so they would have to take this in baby steps, at least until Malfoy learned that Harry really did know best, and that if he didn’t want to wind up with his soul sucked out of his body and the remains cast off into the North Sea, he should listen to what Harry had to say.

He hit upon the perfect way to start bridging the gap in Charms, when Flitwick took a moment out of their studies to help one of the Seventh-year Ravenclaws break in her new wand, which was being rather unruly and performing Freezing Charms whenever she tried to cast Warming ones.

He’d return Malfoy his wand.

He knew Malfoy wasn’t using his old hawthorn one for classes—for one, he’d had a different wand with him in the Room, and for another, Harry himself had Malfoy’s wand tucked away at the bottom of his school trunk, where it would lie, largely forgotten, until the Ministry eventually requested it for preservation and display as the wand that struck down Voldemort. Never mind that, really, Voldemort had mostly struck _himself_ down.

But that request wouldn’t come until just before the one-year anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts, for the memorial hall dedication, and it was only barely October now. The wand would do a lot more good to the world returned to its owner, helping him not make a hash of his future, than sitting under glass as testament to a feat it hadn’t actually accomplished.

Perhaps having something familiar at hand in the midst of so much upheaval, something that was _his_, and his because he’d earned it and not because the Ministry had allowed him to have it, would put Malfoy more at ease, at least to where he wasn’t biting Harry’s head off the moment he stepped into the Room. He was too difficult to engage with as things stood now, defensive all the time. Before, they’d always gone at each other, clashing and gnashing with equal fervour between them, but this Malfoy, while decidedly more lively than the Malfoy in Azkaban, was still bitter and closed off and clearly did not care to be bothered.

Well too bad for him, Harry was in a bothering mood.

Three days had not, it turned out, been nearly enough time to resettle Malfoy’s ruffled feathers, for he was just as vicious and venomous the next time Harry strolled into the Room as he’d been that first round. Harry let the incensed demands to _Fuck right back off!_ bounce away harmlessly, though, and took in the impressive changes Malfoy had made to the Room in Harry’s absence.

Gone was the bed and the lime-green divan, although the matching shag rug was still there, expanded now to a sizable diameter and covered in fluffy floor pillows of all shapes and sizes. In the middle of this caldera of cushions was a round, low-sat table covered in open books and half-inked scrolls weighted down with inkwells and abaci. He’d caught Malfoy in the scandalous act of doing his Arithmancy homework, it seemed.

“You know this castle’s got a great big library with private study rooms, right?”

Malfoy had his fringe pulled back with a silver clip, exposing an impressive forehead, and he’d thrown off his heavy school robes, instead wearing only the standard charcoal cardigan with House-coloured piping along the hem. His sleeves were rolled up, but he had his left arm angled awkwardly behind himself to hide the Mark everyone knew he bore now. Harry recalled Malfoy doing much the same in his cell in Azkaban and supposed some things never changed.

“An amenity of which you’re only aware because of _Granger_,” he spat, pulling the clip from his hair and patting down his fringe self-consciously. It had a rather prominent crimp to it now. “_Get. Out.”_

Harry had the Room call up the same armchair he’d Conjured last time, and flopped into it with a sigh. “You shouldn’t take that tone with me, you know. It’s rude, considering I’ve brought something for you.” From his Mokeskin pouch, hanging about his neck, he drew the long box in which he’d stowed Malfoy’s wand, waving it for show.

Malfoy’s expression was still pinched and irritated, though, unmoved by Harry’s generous gesture. Harry rolled his eyes—stubborn prig—and tossed the box the short distance for Malfoy to catch.

But he made no effort to do so, even shied away from it, as if it were a projectile weapon Harry had just launched at him, and the box clattered to the ground. The lid popped off from the impact, and Malfoy’s wand went rolling over the flagstones.

Harry groaned his frustration, shoving himself up from the armchair with a mighty heave and plodding over to snatch up the wand. “You were supposed to _catch that_, idiot.” 

Malfoy sneered, though Harry thought he detected a twitch of curiosity. “What the fuck is that?”

Harry lifted one brow. “Don’t recognise your own wand?” He turned the wand around, holding it out hilt-first for Malfoy to take—but Malfoy only recoiled, taking two good steps back and nearly tripping over the edge of his ridiculous shag rug in his haste. Harry gave a scoffing sharp laugh. “What the—_take_ the bloody thing.”

Malfoy drew himself up, hardening his jaw. “…I’ve got a wand already.” Which he did, strictly speaking. Though he never seemed to have it on his person in the Room; presently, it was being used as an over-sized bookmark for one of Malfoy’s texts.

“Well, yes, I suppose, but…” Harry cocked his head, just to the side a bit, searching Malfoy’s face—he was behaving oddly, even for Malfoy. Like he thought the wand might start firing off spells of its own volition, or possibly backfire on him as the Elder Wand had done for Voldemort. “Don’t you want your old one back? Even just to have it?” Harry certainly would have wanted _his_ wand back, if he’d been in Malfoy’s position. It was a sentimentality thing; even after it’d gotten snapped in Godric’s Hollow, he hadn’t been able to bring himself to throw away the then-useless pieces. 

Or perhaps Malfoy’s concerns were more prosaic. “Er, if you’re worried it won’t obey you, you can snatch it from me by force, I suppose…?” It was how he’d won it to begin with—which prompted Harry to briefly consider the risk of the Elder Wand’s allegiance as well reverting to Malfoy. But no, the wand only sought out power, and Malfoy was anything _but_ powerful—always had been, the little leech. Harry didn’t understand how he could be quite so confident, but he had a good feeling that, given the ‘choice’, the Elder Wand would remain aligned with Harry. He’d been disarmed a few times over the course of his Aurorship, after all, but somehow he knew—felt it in his bones—that he could still march out to Dumbledore’s white-marble tomb on the shore of the Great Lake, crack it open, and reclaim the Elder Wand once more, and it would merrily be bent to his will. The wrong sort would find that thrilling—Harry just found it unsettling. Like a mystery rash he couldn’t get rid of.

Malfoy’s arms hung at his sides, limp, and he had a funny look of scandalised incredulity on his face—like someone had just come up and pinched his bum. “…Is this your idea of a _sick joke_?”

“What?” Where had _that_ come from? “Uh—no? I mean…I’m only trying to do the decent thing? I’m not having you on.” He couldn’t resist adding: “I’m not _you_, after all.” He took a step towards Malfoy, wand still extended. “Go on, just _take it_, geez.”

But Malfoy scrambled backwards, warding him off with an outstretched hand. “I don’t _want it_.”

Harry had to laugh a bit, as that seemed like an understatement. He sounded outright _frightened_ of it. “Bullshit. It’s your _wand_. What’re you afraid of? It’s not going to bite.”

He took three big strides forward, quicker than Malfoy could back up, and with a frantic squawk, Malfoy slapped the wand from Harry’s hand, exploding with, “I’m not allowed a non-Ministry-approved wand, you arsetit!”

And that gave Harry pause. He drew back, blinking uncertainly. Malfoy was even paler than usual, eyeing the wand—which had rolled half-under one of the couches—with undisguised disgust. 

Shit—he’d completely forgotten that. Or had he ever known? He couldn’t rightly recall. He hadn’t exactly been paying close attention to what sort of wand Malfoy had been using in Eighth Year, after all. Considering it now, though, it sounded like an utterly humiliating punishment, worse somehow than having his wand snapped altogether—though Harry suspected that had only not happened because the Ministry hadn’t been able to locate Malfoy’s original wand. He tried, gamely, to salvage his attempt at fostering goodwill. “Well, er, I…I wasn’t aware of that…” He bent to pick up the wand again but didn’t bother offering it this time, lest Malfoy lash out. “But even if you aren’t allowed to _use_ it, surely you must at least want it back? As a keepsake?” Or was he not permitted to own _any_ wand other than the one the Ministry had procured for him? “I’m not trying to—to get you in trouble or anything. You can just take it and hide it, or I can have it Owled somewhere safe for you?”

“_Take it and hide it?_ Have you _Owl it somewhere safe_?” Malfoy gave him an utterly baffled look. “How does that _not_ sound like you’re trying to entrap me?! Merlin, they really do breed for brawn over brains in Gryffindor, don’t they?”

And all right, Malfoy had a good point, though he didn’t have to be an utter shit about it. It was also probably not a very good idea to give an ex-Death Eater a perfectly good wand that the Ministry knew nothing about. He decided to change tack, letting Malfoy’s waspish insults slide because at least he wasn’t bellowing at Harry to fuck off. “Then what if—what if we had the core removed? Maybe have Ollivander see if he could store it somewhere so you could have it re-cored once your probation’s up? Or we could tell the Ministry about it, and maybe you could even get permission to use this one, instead of the wand they’ve given you?”

“I _told you_,” Malfoy growled, fists clenching, and if Harry wasn’t careful, he was going to take a swing soon, or perhaps have the room Conjure something heavy to drop on Harry’s head. “I don’t _want it_.”

“And _I_ told _you_ that’s bullshit.” Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair and mussing it. Malfoy’s eye twitched a bit, as if the very sight of Harry’s unkempt curls offended. “If you don’t take it now, you’re not getting it back _ever_, because the Ministry’s going to claim it themselves, put it under glass because of what it was used to do—” However inaccurate that assumption might be. “—And then once your probation’s up, you’ll be stuck with some new wand you’ve never used before, assuming Ollivander even wants anything to do with you. Wouldn’t you rather just have _this_? Put it in a trust; tell the Ministry about it. They can’t just _take it_ from you. Or—” Harry frowned, as he considered this. “I don’t _think_ they can, at least, and if they try, then—I dunno, I’ll make a stink about it being mine, since I technically won it, and I’ll hide it somewhere they can’t get to until—”

“Just _leave off_ for fuck’s sake!” Malfoy groaned, sinking into the newly re-Conjured green divan. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and began massaging his temples. “I don’t _want_ the damn thing; how many times must I say so before it manages to penetrate your great thick skull?”

But Harry _couldn’t_ leave off, because Malfoy didn’t understand that this was about more than just a wand—it was him having a bit of _himself_ back again, something the Ministry hadn’t taken from him and only returned at their pleasure. “You’ll regret it if you don’t take it, Malfoy. Trust me. If you think it might violate your probation, then I’ll speak to Kingsley about it and see if an exception can be made or something, but I don’t believe you when you said you just _don’t want it_.”

Malfoy lifted his head, resting his chin in his hands as he smiled, thin and bitter, up at Harry. “The thing is, I don’t give two shits if you ‘believe me’ or not.” His lips curled into something savage. “Fuck off, Potter. If you’re so keen to be rid of the damn thing, then shove it up your own arse.”

And now they were back to this. Harry’s shoulders slumped, the weight of abject failure too heavy to shrug off. He sucked on his teeth, holding Malfoy’s eye for a long beat, then turned to snatch up the empty wand box. He replaced the wand in the fabric-lined pocket, then capped it off with the lid and set it gently on the coffee table, atop a teetering tower of books. “…It’s your wand. _You_ get rid of it if you really don’t want it.”

He then fucked off, as requested.

The exchange had not exactly gone as Harry had expected, but after giving himself a couple of days to cool off—during which he poured himself into Ouroboros research in an effort to appease Hermione, who did not seem pleased he was disappearing at odd hours without telling her or Ron where he’d gotten off to—he resolved to try, try again. He refused to be put off by Malfoy’s unpleasant attitude and intractability—multiple someones’ lives were on the line here! 

But confronting him, head on, was clearly not the way to approach this matter. Malfoy was too gunshy, for whatever reason, even though he’d never been anything even _close_ to ‘shy’ around Harry before. Even at death’s door, the Dementor who’d take his soul literally just around the corner, he’d been as arsey as ever. 

Or perhaps that was why: he’d had nothing left to lose then. This Malfoy, though, still had Harry’s respect to lose—and Harry was shocked to realise that he _did_ respect Malfoy. Just a little. In the way you kind of _had _to respect someone who’d taken a thorough drubbing and still managed to stand on his own two feet. It had nothing to do with his worth, or his nature—it was just…that sort of thing _deserved_ respect. Though Harry would be the first to admit that receiving fawning adulation for the simple act of surviving was not all it was cracked up to be.

So Malfoy pushed and shoved and spat and scratched like an angry, mangy old tom cat desperate to prove he still had fight in him and didn’t need your pity thank-you-very-much. And he didn’t have to accept anyone’s pity, if he didn’t care to—but he _did_ have to accept Harry’s help, because Harry wasn’t going to have broken the laws of physics only for the future to pan out precisely as it had the first go-round. 

If Malfoy didn’t want to be confronted, then Harry would simply have to make it so Malfoy was the one doing the confronting himself. And the fact that this would involve annoying Malfoy into doing so didn’t hurt.

He started visiting the Room on a fairly regular basis, telling Hermione and Ron he was ‘going to study’. Which was not a lie, technically speaking. He didn’t think they quite believed him—when had he done any amount of proactive studying outside of cramming for O.W.L.s?—but as they didn’t press him for the truth of the matter either, he let the fib stand. He was an adult—more so than _they_ were, at least—and entitled to reset the future however he damn well pleased.

He made sure to vary the times and days he chose to pop in, though, to ensure that Malfoy couldn’t outright avoid him without abandoning the Room altogether. Which, Harry was surprised to see, he didn’t seem inclined to do, even though that would’ve been the easiest way to get Harry off his case. If it was peace and quiet he was after, there were a half-dozen other places he probably could have gone—the Library, the Dungeons, even one of the unused classrooms. But he was still there, in the Room, every time Harry barged in.

Well, _barged_ was only the word Malfoy would have used (if he’d been on speaking terms with Harry). For his part, Harry didn’t go out of his way to bother Malfoy at all anymore. No, he only did his three passes along the seventh-floor corridor, strode inside once the Room presented itself, and set himself up comfortably at a handsome desk or sank into one of the luxurious floor pillows, doing precisely what he’d assured Hermione and Ron he’d set off to do: study.

After all, if he was going to be stuck here until May—a not insignificant possibility—he was going to have to sit the damn N.E.W.T.s again, and it’d been seven long years now since he’d been inside a classroom. He had rather a lot of catching up to do if he wanted to be sure he didn’t cock up his own future while trying to restore Malfoy’s. Wouldn’t that just be the cherry on top of it all, finally managing his way back to his present, only to find he was now a janitor stuck Scourgifying the Casting Theatre at St. Mungo’s because he’d flunked his N.E.W.T.s and Robards had refused Kingsley’s request to train him up?

So he carved himself out a little corner of the Room, giving Malfoy his space but not enough for Malfoy’s comfort, Harry suspected, given he could feel him glancing up every five minutes or so to glare daggers Harry’s way. Harry wasn’t fussed, though, and quietly got on with his reading or essay drafting or casting practise. When he came across points he needed help on—which, to his relief, was not _quite_ so often as he’d feared it might be, seven years out of schooling—he’d ask Malfoy questions, and though he tended to receive an angry silence in response, there were the odd moments where Malfoy seemed to forget himself and answered. For someone not taking any of the same classes as Harry, he had a much better grasp on most subjects than Harry, outside of Defence, which strangely both irritated and impressed Harry.

After managing to pry a few helpful answers out of Malfoy, Harry made aborted efforts at starting idle conversation, enquiring about Malfoy’s thoughts on the recent Quidditch World Cup final, whether he thought it was fair McGonagall wouldn’t let any of the Eighth Years fly on the school teams, and if he thought the Elves in the kitchens had changed their treacle tart recipe because it tasted different from what Harry recalled. 

But then he made the mistake of asking after Malfoy’s mother and received a tartly snarled _It’s none of your fucking business_, at which point he decided it might be best to keep things more or less professional.

He kept at it, though, wearing Malfoy down like waves against a pale, pointy cliffside. Housemate drama and difficulties with studies and simple stray thoughts that floated through his mind, he laid them all at Malfoy’s stockinged feet—perhaps bare toes were also a bane of Purebloods—and let them pile up high.

So he supposed he should not have been surprised at the mess made when the heap finally toppled over.

Harry was three inches from finishing his Charms essay and attempting to polish off his conclusion. He’d been trying to pick Malfoy’s brain for ten minutes now concerning Charms he thought might be the easiest to attempt wandlessly—Harry’d chosen _Lumos_ for his essay topic, since it was the only one he’d ever managed, but he wanted to offer some suggestions on others that might be suitable for beginners to attempt. “I mean, a Summoning Charm’s going to be one of the most useful, if you’re ever disarmed, don’t you think? But that’s a fourth-year spell. Maybe something a bit lighter on the core would be better—like a Levitation Charm, or an _Expelliarmus_ of your own? Though I dunno that your average witch or wizard is ever going to need to be able to wandlessly defend themselves… Not that it’s a skill I wouldn’t encourage interested parties to explore, just most people are probably going to get more use out of a wandless Mending Charm than a wandless Body Bind, so maybe—”

His rambling was cut off by Malfoy violently shoving everything off the lovely writing desk at which he’d sat himself—sending textbooks and parchment and quills and ink flying—and then overturning the desk itself with a furious roar. Harry, safely curled up several metres away on Malfoy’s ugly green divan, blinked at the chaos, hand instinctively reaching for his wand but not drawing. Malfoy began pacing, taking great big clomping steps as he did so, with his eyes closed and Ministry-approved wand in hand. He was mouthing something to himself, too quiet for Harry to hear in the heavy silence that hung about the Room in the immediate wake of Malfoy’s fantastic tantrum.

Then he stopped, short, and opened his eyes and looked around—and whatever spell he’d been attempting to cast did not seem to have taken, because he was pinch-faced now, gone purple with undisguised rage. He chucked his wand against the wall, where it bounced off and clattered brightly to the floor, rolling away beneath a bookcase. “Why the _fuck_ won’t it make you leave?” he moaned, slumping dramatically into a wingback of grey suede that materialised from nothing just in time to catch his weight.

Harry watched, waited a careful beat lest Malfoy decide he hadn’t destroyed enough furniture and Harry’s head made a tempting target, then asked, “…Why won’t _what_ make me leave?”

“The _Room_!” Malfoy snapped, as if it should have been bleedingly obvious. “I’ve asked it to get rid of you a dozen different ways and it _won’t fucking work_.”

Harry carefully rolled up his parchment, placing it and his quill on the coffee table before him, and considered the predicament—because by all rights, if Malfoy _was_ trying to keep him out, the magic ought to be barring entry to outsiders, just as it had in years past. “Perhaps…perhaps it’s a bit broken? On the fritz, or something?”

“It can’t be _a bit_ broken, you imbecile. It’s either functioning or it’s not. Given I can do this just fine—” He summoned a silver platter not unlike the one from which he’d been eating chocolates the first time Harry had found him—and then chucked it at Harry’s head, also reminiscent of their first meeting in the Room. “It seems to be in working order.”

Harry performed a quick duck, and the platter went sailing over his head. “Well clearly it’s _not_ working, since you haven’t managed to give me the boot yet.” Harry sighed. “And here I thought you were just warming up to me…” Malfoy gave him _such_ a scathing look, and Harry rolled his eyes. “All right, then: what’ve you been asking it to do?”

“What have I been—?”

Harry nodded. “Sometimes you’ve got to make sure you word your request a certain way, or the Room won’t comply. Plus there’s things it _can’t_ Conjure too, so—”

“I know how the fucking Room works,” Malfoy grit out, arms crossed. “Spent the better part of Sixth Year here, as you damn well know.”

“You spent it in the Room of Hidden Things—it’s not quite the same, is it?” Malfoy wrinkled his nose at this, so Harry reckoned he was right. “So either you’re asking it for something it can’t give you, or you’re not phrasing yourself properly to get the desired outcome.”

“Well thank Merlin I’ve got _Professor Potter_ on the case.” He closed his eyes again, mouthing silently, then snuck a peek at Harry in his peripheral vision before wilting once more in disappointment. He Conjured an ottoman to match the wingback, then promptly kicked the shit out of it in a pique. Harry watched, blithely waiting, and slowly, with great difficulty, Malfoy brought himself to ask, “…How _would_ one go about phrasing such a request _properly_, then?”

Harry was all bright innocence. “What request?”

“A request for you to fuck off.”

“I don’t want to.”

“A request to have the Room _make_ you fuck off.”

Harry snorted, enjoying this exchange far more than was warranted. “You want me to _help you kick me out_? Why would I do that?”

“You _just offered_—”

“I asked you what you’d been asking the Room to do.”

“And that was—”

“Out of curiosity.” Harry beamed, and Malfoy looked like he was about to start destroying more furniture, so Harry decided to cut him a break. He still had a bit of Slytherin cunning in him, after all these years; he reckoned he could game the Room into letting him back inside, if they were indeed successful in finding the right phrasing to kick him out. “Fine, have at: what’ve you asked it?”

Malfoy gave him a long, testing look, like he was trying to make sure he wasn’t being played, then huffed, ticking off items on his fingers. “I’ve asked it to keep everyone but myself out, to keep _you_ out specifically, to keep all Gryffindors out, to keep all other Hogwarts students out, to keep out anyone looking to bother me, to keep out anyone looking to _talk_ to me—” He threw his hands in the air. “I even tried _keep out anyone not related to me by blood_!”

Harry considered this. “…You know, the Potters_ were_ part of the Sacred Twenty-eight at one point, I heard. It’s not _entirely_ impossible we—”

Malfoy jabbed a finger at him. “I swear to all that is magical and mystical, if you finish that _fucking_ sentence…” 

Harry snapped his mouth back shut again, tapping his chin in thought; by all rights, any _one_ of those should have kept him out, shouldn’t it have? The phrases Malfoy was using were far more blanketing than even Neville’s had been, back when they’d used the Room for sanctuary during the Carrows’ reign. Perhaps the Room _was_ broken, despite Malfoy’s protestations. Though there was the small matter that it seemed to be functioning properly in every _other_ manner, so why would it only fail where Harry was concerned—?

“Oh.”

Malfoy straightened up immediately, expression gone sharp and accusing. “What? What is it? What’ve you thought of?”

“Well. I was just thinking…it’s probably because I’m not the person you’re thinking of when you’re telling the Room to keep me out.”

And now Malfoy was looking at him like he’d just started speaking in tongues, eyes narrowed. “…_What_? Trust I’m _quite_ familiar with you by now.” He waved a hand in Harry’s general direction. “Patron Saint Potter, bug-eye frames, birds’ nest hair, slayer of Dark Lords, Champion of Muggles, our glorious and blessèd Saviour in the light of whose brilliance I am not worthy to stand.” He swooned mockingly, then spat, “I’m sure as shit thinking of you, I’ve got the indigestion to prove it.”

Harry watched him work; objectively, Malfoy _was_ quite entertaining when he was ‘on’, and so far removed from his barbs and jabs, Harry found he didn’t offend so easily and could enjoy the ride, as it were. He nodded, lips pursed. “Mm, yeah—no, that’s me to a ‘T’, you’re right. But—it’s also _not_ me, too. I’m kind of…” He twisted his lips—trying to recall how he’d put it to Ron and Hermione. “Not meant to be here.”

“For once we agree on something,” Malfoy said, and Harry laughed, actually snorted.

“Right, no, I mean more like I’m _really_ not supposed to be here. As in, _here_ in general. Not just this room. More this…” He gestured vaguely with his hands. “Reality.” 

Malfoy was giving him a rather sidelong glance. “…You’re making even less sense than usual.”

Harry supposed he was and decided, what the hell, why not just go all-in with the truth? It certainly couldn’t hurt; Malfoy’s opinion of him was already abysmal as it was, and he wasn’t likely to laugh at least like Ron would have. He might report Harry to Pomfrey and have him bunking with Lockhart by day’s end, but he wouldn’t laugh. Probably not.

Harry ran a tongue over his teeth and took a breath. “Well, I’m from the future, see.” The words hung in heavy silence, Malfoy making no move to touch them, and Harry continued on, casual as he pleased. “Where I’m from, I’m actually an Auror—Senior, mind you; worked hard for that promotion, regardless of what you might be thinking. Just celebrated my twenty-fifth birthday—well, not _celebrated_, I didn’t actually get around to that—and everything was going pretty decently—okay, as decently as could be expected, on my end at least, but we’ll get to that later—and Robards sent me out on assignment to work security for an Unspeakable, a mission on which I found myself facing the wrong end of a creature called an ‘Ouroboros’, which I have since learned can send people through time with _rather_ painful bites to their noses.” He pointed to his nose, on which could still be seen the faint pin-prick scars of Mathilda’s handiwork. “So that’s been my adventure thus far.”

He waited a long moment for the inevitable accusation of _You’re so full of shit, Potter_ or some variation thereon, but when it failed to materialise, Harry allowed himself to glance over at Malfoy, just a quick peek, to try and read his expression.

He was staring at Harry—not glaring, not sneering, just…looking. Lacy white brows knit in thought, nipped lower lip betraying unexpectedly careful consideration, and Harry perked _right_ the fuck up, straightening in place. “…You believe me.” It was less question than bald, astounded observation—but it was enough to put Malfoy on his guard, and his face went tight.

“Wh—you’re _lying_?”

“No! No, I’m not! I swear I’m not—” Harry scrambled to his feet, still not entirely accustomed to his once again ungainly limbs, and felt suddenly awkward, confidence ebbing. It was only, he hadn’t expected Malfoy to _believe_ him. In no scenario had Malfoy just _trusted_, from the outset, and it sent an unexpected rush of happiness bubbling up inside like champagne fizz. “I just…I didn’t expect you to—I mean, even Ron and Hermione took a fair bit of convincing, and you just…” He couldn’t help the ridiculous grin tugging at his lips and probably making him look utterly bonkers. “You just believed me. Like that.”

Malfoy frowned. “…I never said I believed you.”

The champagne bubbles fizzled out, but Harry held on tight to the rush of excitement buoying his spirits. “…You never said you _didn’t_ believe me either.”

One elegant shoulder lifted. “You and Weasley are too stupid to come up with a story like that on your own, and Granger’s too sanctimonious to help.” He raked a judging gaze over Harry, as if taking him in anew and finding him irredeemably wanting. “You’re meant to be _twenty-five_?”

Harry held out his arms, glancing down at himself. “What, don’t I look it?”

The joke seemed wasted on Malfoy, who continued to stare at him in contemplation. “…Sure you don’t need to pay a visit to Pomfrey?”

It came in that careful, wary tone people often took around those they thought might be a danger to themselves or others if startled. “…So you _don’t_ believe me.”

“I believe you believe what you’re saying. Doesn’t mean your travails haven’t finally caught up with you.” He wrinkled his nose, shuddering. “It better not be catching.”

Harry scoffed. “You think my hypothetical mental breakdown might be _contagious_?”

“I’d rather not find out.” He settled back into his chair, closing his eyes again and mouthing something under his breath. Then he opened his eyes and sighed a soft, “Well _fuck_.”

Offence lanced sharp and hot through Harry. “Did you just try to get the Room to kick me out _again_?”

“Yes, and it still didn’t work, which suggests to me you’re lying.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Or it could simply be the Room doesn’t quite know how to respond to requests to ‘keep out time-travelling Scarheads’.”

Another writing desk, identical to the one Malfoy had just destroyed in his pique, materialised before his wingback, and Malfoy reached for a quill and parchment. “It was ‘time-travelling spec-faced twats’, but I’ll give that one a try, too.”

Harry mouthed something rude of his own under his breath, reaching for his parchment again and sinking back onto the divan. He threw his feet up, being sure to rub them all over the upholstery. Perhaps when Malfoy had the Room Conjure it again next time, it’d still reek of his smelly socks. 

But he was no closer to finishing the final three inches now than before Malfoy’d gone and gotten his hopes up, and now he was too distracted by the tantalising proximity of his goal to focus on wandless spellwork. He supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised; Malfoy wasn’t going to believe him without some sort of proof, even under the best of circumstances. Hermione and Ron had only done so because they were his best mates and trusted him. Malfoy despised him, had no reason to trust he wasn’t being had, and would be prone to disbelieving just to spite.

He let his head fall back against the raised arm of the divan, staring up at the ceiling.

Here again, he’d have to make Malfoy come to _him_. 

“…Fine. All right. I suppose I could be imagining it.” Malfoy’s quill continued its soft, furious scritching, pausing only on occasion, likely to be dipped in ink. “I won’t lie and say that I don’t still think I’m dreaming all of this, sometimes.”

_Scritch scritch scritchety-scritch_ went Malfoy’s quill, but slower—before it stopped altogether. “How do you know you aren’t, then?”

Harry made himself take a beat to consider his words—they mattered, this time. Malfoy was so easily spooked, so gently offended, and Harry had never been good with him on the best of days. “Because…” 

Because—because it felt too _real_. Because he remembered so many things, and that scared him, but not half as much as the things he _didn’t_ remember, the things he might have already changed, not for the better but for the worse. If he did this, really _tried_, and nothing changed because the future’d already been written, then could he take that? Could _Malfoy_ take it, knowing it’d all been for nought? 

He rolled his quill between his fingers. “…Well, I suppose I _don’t_ know. I very much hope I’m not, though. Kind of nice to have a second chance, if that’s what this is.”

Malfoy released a harsh, derisive bark, and Harry turned with a frown. Malfoy was still hunched over his parchment, shaking his head. “What, _exhausted_ from the daily parades and showers of gifts? Ears ringing from just too much simpering adulation? Hands cramping from all those handshakes? How _tragic_ for you.”

“Is that how you honestly think my life turns out?”

Malfoy stabbed his quill into its inkpot, twisting around to glare at Harry with flashing eyes. “If you try and tell me it’s not, then that I _won’t_ believe.”

Harry had to hold himself back, again, from immediately taking a potshot and let the underlying accusation in Malfoy’s sniping rise to the surface to be managed. He sighed. “…I suppose from…_certain_ perspectives it’s not the worst life.” 

Better than Malfoy had to look forward to, at least. He had a steady job he was damn good at, the respect of his peers, a home he was paying for with his own money—not an inheritance—and friends who made space for him in their lives, even when he didn’t entirely feel like he quite belonged there. No, his life was good—it was the _living_ bit that was a challenge. 

He shrugged. “All right, fine. It’s a half-decent life I lead. There’s no parades, though. Don’t be daft.”

Malfoy brought a hand to his chest, mocking hurt bright in his eyes. “Where _do_ you find the strength to get out of bed each morning then?”

“I said _half-decent_. It’s not a glowing review—I work my arse off. At a job I _earned_.”

A derisive scoff. “And I am just _shocked_ you wound up in the position you’ve been angling for since—second year, was it?”

“…_Fifth_…” Harry frowned. What was wrong with making a career out of what you were good at? Some people, like Hermione, got to build a life out of their passion—everyone else bereft of passion altogether had to make do with what they were capable of. And Harry was capable of Auroring. Who was Malfoy to judge? “I still earned it, though. N.E.W.T.s and basic training and a year of night shifts and shitty patrol rounds and everything.”

“Mm. And how many hands were you asked to shake on those ‘shitty patrol rounds’?”

Harry shifted uncomfortably. “…That’s beside the point.”

“I rather think that’s the _entire_ point.”

“No, the _point is_—” What _was_ the point again? He’d lost the entire thread of the conversation; it was far too easy to stray from the beaten path when he let Malfoy do the driving. “The point is, I’m not lying. I’m not crazy, I’m not dreaming, I’m not any of those things. Except perhaps living down to your very low opinion of me.”

Malfoy leaned against his desk, one elbow propped up, and Harry felt his stomach do a nauseating little dance in his midsection. He was actually _engaging. _“Have a bit of faith in me, Potter. I can run my opinion of you right into the ground and then some.”

Harry gave a little huff. “Well colour me impressed. I shall learn never to underestimate you.”

“I’d have thought Sixth Year taught you that.” It came out soft, and a little choked—like Malfoy regretted saying it halfway through, and Harry blinked at him. Though to his great shock, an off-colour comment that might once have sent Harry into a rage only now brought a pang of regret.

“…Yeah, suppose it should’ve.”

Malfoy looked suddenly very awkward, like he wanted to sink into the chair. He began fidgeting with the ink and quill again, and Harry panicked, groping for a change of topic, anything to keep words flowing between them, to keep Malfoy from shutting down again. They weren’t getting on smashingly, but they also weren’t chucking room decor at one another, and that was progress.

“Hermione—Hermione’s thinking of running for a Wizengamot chair.” He didn’t know why he’d latched onto that bit of trivia; it was only the first thing that’d popped into his mind. Would she still elect to run here, now, after all this? He hadn’t mentioned politics to her at all, or really much of anything concerning her future, but still. He hoped she would; he maintained she’d be brilliant at it, a much-needed youthful perspective coming to such an old, stuffy institution as the Wizengamot.

Malfoy boggled. “_Granger_?” and his tone—abject disbelief with a distinct note of terror—made it clear he was thinking of the Hermione from now, curled up on one of the plush couches in the Gryffindor Common Room with her nose buried in a book.

“Oh—oh no, not _your_ Hermione. Mine—well, ours, she’s the same person, but—” He made a few gestures he hoped conveyed the time travelling-ness of it all. “You know. From my time. It won’t happen for a while.”

Malfoy relaxed a hair, but only just, still frowning at the thought. “…So she’s stopped trying to _tell_ people what to do and decided she’ll just legislate her will upon us all?”

“There are worse people that could sit upon that bench,” Harry said, trying not to stoop to Malfoy’s snide sniping. If he dropped the M-slur, they’d go at it, but until it reached that point, he’d try to be the bigger man and hope Malfoy wasn’t _quite_ so stupid as to mouth off like that after what they’d been through the past year.

“Oh yes. Perhaps if she’d overseen my trial, I might’ve only gotten three months’ probation and a hard right hook.”

Harry shrugged. “You’re saying you wouldn’t have taken that?” Malfoy did not respond, so Harry took it as a hard _yes_. “Ron’s been trying to talk her into running for weeks now, and I think he’s finally worn her down.”

“I expect he’ll be ecstatic to have that Ministry official pay-cheque finally filling out their pathetic coffers.”

Harry hadn’t told him Ron and Hermione were married and wondered if Malfoy had just assumed, or was perhaps fishing for information. “One—Hermione’s already an Undersecretary to the Minister. She’d only be getting a minor pay rise, if she even won the election. Two—she and Ron’ve agreed to keep separate vaults for their own earnings as well as a family vault for expenses they share. And three—Ron’s the CFO of one of _the_ most successful wizarding brands on the market today. There are Wheezes shops on three continents now. I’m officially the least well-off of the three of us. I highly doubt he wants her to run for the money.”

Malfoy barked a hard, sharp laugh. “Weasley’s _rich_? Now you’re just having me on.”

And Harry found his good humour rising, because it was freeing, finally being allowed to _talk_, not worrying about screwing up someone’s future. His entire purpose in being here was to change Malfoy’s life, so what did it matter if he let slip a few interesting tidbits about their friends along the way? Even if they were mostly _Harry’s_ friends?

“Hermione’s in politics, Ron’s stinking wealthy—Luna took over the _Quibbler_ as Editor-in-Chief when her father retired two years back, but she’s got a whole herd of sub-editors to cover for her when she runs off on her expeditions to who knows where searching for who knows what. Ginny’s Seeking for the Harpies, angling for the captaincy next season. Neville got hitched to Hannah Abbott just a few months back, and they’re running the Leaky now, took over from old Tom. The inn’s actually not a half-bad place to spend a night if the need arises now since Hannah whipped it into shape. Seamus and Dean run one of the Wheezes branches over in Cork; Seamus’s mum wanted him to be closer to home, after everything, and Dean—well, he’d follow Seamus pretty much anywhere.”

As he prattled on, though, he could see Malfoy going stiffer and stiffer, eyes darting about the room as he grew visibly uncomfortable under the weight of the information Harry was laying upon him, because of—and even Harry, thick as he was, could hear it—a distinct _lack_ of information on one particular person of relevance included in the flood. Harry hadn’t meant anything by it—or perhaps he had. Unconsciously avoiding it, because addressing it—facing it—might take away from the reality before him. Perhaps if he spoke it into existence, it would overwrite the now, and everything would be as it once had been (or once would be, however that worked).

But if he never said it, if they never _accepted it_, then Harry could never maybe change it, and then it _would_ be as it had once been (would be, whatever), and Harry couldn’t chance that. Even if this was a fucking dream or hallucination, he had to _try_. Maybe that, at least, would be enough to satisfy his conscience. 

He swallowed. And then said: “Ask me.”

Malfoy gave a start, shoulders hitching, and he pasted on his best _Potter’s fucking mental_ face. “Ask _what_? I don’t have any—”

“If you really do believe me, if you actually think I’m from the future, that I’ve lived this life once before and am well on my way to doing it again, if you _trust_ that what I’m saying about Ron and Hermione and Neville and Luna and everyone else is true, then I know you want to ask me. So stop dithering and _ask_.”

Malfoy bristled at the accusation he was anything other than impeccably collected, forcing a sneer. “_You’re_ the one babbling your life’s story at me. I don’t give two fucks—”

“Ask me about you.”

That shut Malfoy right up, his jaw gone rigid, and after a thick swallow that sent his throat bobbing, he looked away. As if that might keep him from hearing what Harry was bound and determined to say.

“You’re dead.”

Harry heard himself say the words as if from far away. It was the first time he’d spoken them aloud, really. To anyone. And to his admitted relief, absolutely nothing changed. His world did not shift on its axis, he did not jolt awake on crisp clean sheets of white confined to a St. Mungo’s bed with a Body Bind. Absolutely nothing changed—and Harry used this knowledge to fuel his onward charge, because in for a penny, in for a pound.

“Where I come from, _when_ I come from, seven years hence, Draco Malfoy is dead.”

He wondered, belatedly, if he should’ve come out and said it like that. Malfoy was touchy, unpredictable. But he also hated being bullshitted, and he’d hate even more the thought of Harry trying to break this to him easily, worrying about his feelings. He supposed at least he couldn’t screw up Malfoy’s future any more than it already was.

Harry stood—and walked over to stand at Malfoy’s side. He’d slumped back in his chair, hands clenching the arms with white knuckles, and from this distance, Harry could see he was _trembling_. Like Harry had just confirmed his worst nightmare. Perhaps he had.

His head hung low, and he flinched when Harry moved closer still, the worn-out toes of his socks kissing the polished brilliance of Malfoy’s fine loafers. He refused to ask _How?_ even though Harry could see the curiosity strung through him tense as a nocked arrow, and Harry said, casual, “Dementor’s Kiss. After a stint in Azkaban. You tried to murder Arthur Weasley. You didn’t manage it, mind—seems even seven years out, you still don’t have it in you to kill—but three innocent bystanders got in the way. They let the Death Eater shit slide when you were a kid, but terrorism’s not something the Ministry was going to take lightly.”

This seemed to jolt Malfoy enough to make his head snap up, eyes wide and white and accusing, and he huffed, breathy and incredulous, “_Why_ would I—?”

Harry just shrugged. “Beats the fuck out of me. You made much ado at your trial about the whole thing being done under duress—as if no one’d heard you lay out _that_ excuse before—saying the Neo-Death Eaters you’d gotten caught up with made you do it, that they’d threatened to kill you if you hadn’t seen the attack through. Wizengamot didn’t buy it—or else they just didn’t care. You weren’t doing anyone good _outside_ of prison, but you might at least give a few families some peace of mind _inside_—so off you went, and then three years of denied appeals later, they gave you the Kiss.” He slipped his hands into his pockets, staring down at Harry’s dirty socks and Malfoy’s fashionable shoes, the contrast particularly odd considering the gaping difference in their positions. He didn’t think Azkaban Malfoy had even been wearing any footwear at all, now he thought about it.

“But that’s what the Wizengamot decided. And me, I never could quite understand it. Because I was there, you know. Atop that tower, that night, and I watched you try—and fail—to do in Dumbledore. So I asked myself, how could someone like that, someone who didn’t _have it in him_, wind up back in the _exact_ same position as before, another dirty boot on his neck directing his wand where he claimed he didn’t want it pointed? How could someone who’d fucked up royally the once and gotten a second chance squander it _so_ abysmally?” Harry spread his arms, taking a step back. “I don’t know you. We aren’t best mates, not even casual acquaintances, and I’m just dandy with that, so why don’t _you_ tell _me_ something for once? Why don’t you tell me why you’d do something like that? Why you’d flee the country without finishing your community service, why you’d hide away on a vineyard in the Italian countryside, why you’d get yourself caught in a raid by Organizzazione Internazionale della Auror to be dragged back to England, only to—”

“Stop, just—_stop._” Malfoy shoved himself up out of his chair, shouldering past Harry with bruising force. “I don’t—”

Harry wasn’t having it. “_Tell me why_. Tell me why you’d let them get their claws in you _again_, why you didn’t just say _no_ this time, why you didn’t just _ask_ someone, why you didn’t just ask m—”

Malfoy clapped his hands over his ears, snarling, “I said _shut the fuck up_! Morgana’s bleeding _tits_, I don’t—I don’t need to hear every sordid detail of my _pathetic life_. It’s not as if it’s news to me it’s all bound to go to shit!”

Harry lashed out, grabbing Malfoy’s delicate wrists and jerking his hands away. He held them, fast, and felt his anger rise, his voice dropping in response until his words came out in a desperate hiss. “God, you don’t get it, do you? You don’t understand _why I’m telling you this_.” He was breathing in sharp, rapid pants, lips chapped, and he licked them. “I’m not doing it to make you angry—I’m doing it so I can help you _stop it from happening_.”

In a flash, all the humiliation and despair sloughed away, revealing a seething mask of fury underneath, and Malfoy shoved Harry away with startling strength, breaking his hold. He drew up tall, pulling the broken bits of himself back together until he was once more a bitter, angry shade—with a raspy, accusing voice that fit the image smartly. “So that’s what this is?” He glared down his long, patrician nose at Harry, lips curling. “You hanging about here as if it’s your Common Room, hovering and probing—am I your _pity project_? Trying to reform me, are you? To make you _feel better_?” 

“To make me—” Rage stuck in Harry’s craw, a sudden, sharp spike going straight to the part of Harry’s brain that made him yell, very loudly. “Make me feel better? Make _me_ feel better? Yeah, it _is_ to make me feel better, you absolute rat-_bastard_! All _this_, so I don’t have to see you again, seven years from now, cowering in an Azkaban cell on the eve of your_ death _because for _some fucked up reason_ I was your last request!” He was bellowing towards the end, voice gone raw, and he was probably spitting a bit too, but he didn’t much care, because he’d wanted to scream, quite a lot, for a while now, and he’d finally given in. It felt amazing. He wanted to do it some more.

But Malfoy just stood there, cool and calm and quiet, and took it—though Harry would’ve had to have been blind to miss the fury bubbling just under his skin, his magic practically visible as it crackled about him, making the little fine hairs on Harry’s arms stand on end as his own magic perked up in response. He was white, pale as the moon, as he said in a voice entirely too silky and calm, “Get the fuck out of here.” And in case Harry wasn’t of a mind to immediately comply, he added for good measure, “Or I swear to the four Founders I will find a way to cast something _exceedingly_ nasty with this hamstrung wand I’m stuck with, one way or another.”

And right about now, Harry was just as pissed off with Malfoy as Malfoy was with him, so he decided against calling him on his bluff and instead showed him a couple of fingers and turned on his heel, making for the door mostly by memory because he was still half-blind with rage.

He stalked back to the Gryffindor Common Room, shoulders tight and jaw set, and he didn’t think he’d ever been this fucking _furious_. He’d been angry before, pissed off—but he had a temper, so what else was new? This, though—this felt different.

Because there was a little bit of terror mixed in too.

He’d laid everything out there (bluntly, sure, but Malfoy would appreciate that in retrospect, once he came to his senses), and then Malfoy’s _fucking pride_ had made a hash of what’d been the longest they’d yet gone without throwing furniture or foul language at each other. And if it kept happening like that, if Harry couldn’t get Malfoy to _listen_ to him, properly, then—

Then Harry’d have to sit there and watch him die _again_. Except this time, instead of wondering if there might have been anything he could’ve done to prevent it, he’d _know_ there’d been something he could’ve done to prevent it.

He’d gotten in too deep now. He couldn’t take it, if that happened. He’d go mad, absolutely _bonkers_.

The Fat Lady gave him a huffy _Why I never_—_!_ when Harry barked the password, and the dark mood that hung about him like his own personal storm cloud sent the few students spending their lovely Sunday afternoon cooped up in the Common Room scattering when Harry came stomping in. He continued stomping up to his dorm room, not entirely surprised to find it empty—Hermione and Ron were probably off enjoying their weekend, along with the rest of the blissfully ignorant student populace unburdened by a prescient knowledge of the future and all the tragedies bound to occur therein.

He flopped onto his four-poster, his anger sapping his strength, and threw one arm over his eyes as he forced himself to take several deep, bracing breaths. Malfoy was a wanker, a stupid, prideful wanker who evidently preferred _death_ to losing face, and Harry wanted to throttle him right now, here in the past, and put him out of his misery. It’d certainly solve the problem of all the nastiness Malfoy caused in the future. 

He squeezed his eyes shut, sending spangles of colour across the back of his lids, and bit back another frustrated shout as he pounded the duvet with his free hand. Did Malfoy just not _believe_ Harry, after all? What was it going to take to convince him that if he didn’t set aside his snooty superiority complex and accept help freely offered, he was going to literally die? This wasn’t a game, and god, if he was so fussed about it, it wasn’t as if anyone else had to know! Harry’d already seen him at his lowest, what else really did he have to lose, letting Harry help him back to his feet? They’d had their differences—had they _ever_—but there came a point where you had to just set that petty shit aside and—

“Oh, you’re here.”

Harry let his arm fall away, shuffling up onto his elbows and blinking blearily. The room had gotten darker, the lamps burning high and bright now to keep the room merry as dusk blanketed everything in velvet just outside the mullioned windows. Harry supposed he’d fallen asleep somewhere in his angry internal monologuing and napped straight through to dinnertime.

Ron was standing at the foot of his bed—along with Hermione, her fingers casually laced between his own. Harry didn’t stop to wonder what plans had been foiled when they’d arrived back in Ron’s room only to find Harry sawing wood.

“…Should I leave?” he offered, one brow lifted. He didn’t quite know where he’d go, if they said _yes_. He could still feel his irritation with Malfoy itching under his skin, and he’d liked the quiet solitude of the dorm room. There weren’t too many places a bloke could go in this castle if he wanted some privacy. Which, he supposed, was why Ron and Hermione were here.

“If you’re offering…” Ron started, just as Hermione said, “Of course not, don’t be ridiculous.” They turned to each other—Hermione frowning in bald disapproval, and Ron wearing a pitiful expression bordering on begging. 

Harry snorted softly, then began to slide out of the bed. “I didn’t mean to nap anyway—I’ll be out of your hair.”

“Surprised you didn’t spend the afternoon with Malfoy,” Hermione said, and Harry didn’t like her tone _or_ the way she had her arms crossed.

Harry straightened, swallowing. “…You knew?”

“We weren’t _meant_ to know?” Ron’s brows flew up into his fringe. “You drove us mad for weeks trying to track him down, then suddenly you’re nowhere to be found yourself. What were we supposed to think you were up to? _Studying_?”

Harry winced. “I _was_ studying. Am studying.”

“Studying _what_ exactly?” Ron muttered to himself, picking at a fraying thread on Harry’s duvet, and Harry doubted he was actually looking for an answer.

Hermione gave him a gentle elbowing, and Harry felt his chest clench, because she _still_ did that. These were his friends, his very best mates, and he could take this to them, couldn’t he? They’d stuck with him through ridiculous plans and harebrained schemes before—surely they’d do it again, if he asked. Maybe begged.

“…All right, yeah. I’ve been spending time with Malfoy. Not doing—anything _weird_,” he rushed to assure them. “I do go there to study. To do homework and whatnot.”

“‘There’?” Hermione asked.

“The, er…Room of Requirement. Evidently it’s still in working order, and Malfoy’s set up camp there.”

Ron boggled. “Seriously? After the fire and all?” Harry nodded. “Blimey…” He turned to Hermione, stricken. “You said that stuff destroyed everything it came in contact with!”

“It _does_,” Hermione said, chewing on a nail. “Or it _should_—it’s really the Room of Requirement?”

“Seems to be? Conjures up anything you ask it to, just like it always has.” He shrugged. “Maybe because the Fiendfyre was cast when it was the Room of Hidden Things?”

Ron scratched at his temple. “Or maybe McGonagall repaired it?” He then seemed to process the other bit of Harry’s comment. “Wait—Malfoy’s _living_ there?”

“Not _living_, I don’t think… He goes back to his dorm most nights to sleep, I’ve seen it on the Map.” And now Ron and Hermione were giving each other meaningful looks. “I think he just wants a bit of privacy.”

“Which totally explains why you’re slipping off to canoodle with him every chance you get,” Ron said, rolling his eyes and plodding over to his bed, where he threw himself down spread-eagle on his back. “I thought we were shot of this after Sixth Year…”

Harry bristled. “Shot of—? And I’m not—not _canoodling_!” He wasn’t even entirely sure what that was, but Ron’s tone was more than suggestive enough to give Harry a good idea.

Ron drew himself back upright, shoulders slumped, and Hermione slipped around behind him, resting her head against his shoulder. Harry wondered if they’d already had this conversation themselves, and that was why she was content to let Ron do the talking. “Yeah? Then what’s going on? You think he wants privacy, so you’re there to—I dunno, bother him? Don’t get me wrong, mate, I’d have been tempted to do the same once upon a time, but…” He sighed. “Just—after last year? Or however long ago it was for you? Seems a bit mean-spirited.” And that was _definitely_ Hermione speaking through him.

“I’m not bothering him,” Harry grumbled. Which was not true, but he at least wasn’t doing it on _purpose_. Mostly.

“Then what? You think he’s up to something again? He’s been pretty quiet this year, I’ll admit, but the way you’ve been _staring_ at him, watching him like a hawk any time you’re within spitting distance…” Ron shuddered dramatically. “Who’s he out to kill this time, then? Slughorn, for not playing favourites with him? Me again, ‘cause second time’s the charm?” 

Harry was starting to rethink his confidence that his friends would support him in whatever he chose to do, as evidently asking them to trust he generally had the right of things when it came to Draco Malfoy was too much. “He’s not ‘up to’ anything.”

Ron rubbed at his ear, then twisted to look at Hermione over his shoulder. “Did I hear that right? He _doesn’t_ think Malfoy’s up to anything?”

Harry rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against one of the spindle-posts of his bed. “You’re a laugh riot.” He sighed, deciding to have out with it. “_He’s _not up to anything. _I_ am.”

“You are…what?”

“Up to something.” Harry wiped a hand over his face and scrubbed at his hair. “I think—I think he’s the reason I came back. I mean, that I came back _here_, right now, instead of just going back three weeks or to primary school or something. I think I…willed it?”

“You…_willed_ it?” Ron looked to Hermione. “You getting any of this?”

She bit her lip. “Well Harry did mention the handler saying you had to focus on when you wanted to be transported to once the Ouroboros bit you…” She narrowed her eyes at Harry in thought, processing. “You’re saying you _wanted_ to come back to this point in time—the start of term, Eighth Year?”

“I…kind of? Nothing so specific…” He hadn’t been _trying_ to be bitten, after all. “Around the time I got bitten, I’d been…kind of wishing I could change things. Or do things differently. Like, go back and—and fix things.” He laced his fingers together, nervously cracking his knuckles one by one. “There’s, er…something I didn’t tell you. Before.” Hermione opened her mouth, eyes wide, objections ready to fly free, but Harry just held up a hand. “Please. It’s important, all right? And it’s nothing to do with either of you, really. Not directly at least.” 

Hermione pursed her lips and made a sound of irritation, but she relented, and Ron rewarded her with a placating pat to her thigh.

Here went nothing. “…Right before I took the assignment with the Unspeakable, the one where I got bit…” He took a breath. “Malfoy got the Kiss.”

Hermione gasped softly, hand flying to her mouth, and even Ron went tense and hard, but they didn’t interrupt.

“He’s in Azkaban, where I’m from—_was_ in Azkaban. Will be in Azkaban? I dunno. Anyway, he’d done some terrible things to wind up there. More terrible than in the war, even—don’t think he didn’t deserve it. But it finally came to the point he’d lost his last appeal, and they set him to be Kissed.”

“Fucking hell…” Ron breathed, brows knitting, and Harry didn’t think he’d feel quite so sympathetic if he knew what Malfoy had done to get the Kiss, but this was not the time or place for such revelations. One life to save at a time, he told himself. 

“Yeah. And evidently they grant prisoners set to be executed a final request, and his was…to speak to me. So I went, because…because, well, he’d asked.” And that was not the whole truth, but it sounded better than saying _Because, well, it was Malfoy_, which was sure to only earn him more long, knowing looks. “…We fought, which probably isn’t much of a shock. I think I probably shouldn’t have gone at all. But—but I couldn’t help thinking that maybe there was something I could’ve done, something, some_how_, to…to _stop it_. To stop it before it became unstoppable.”

“Oh, Harry…” Hermione said, and there was so much emotion there, Harry didn’t know how to unpack it all: disappointment, irritation, pity, a fond sort of bemusement, even a touch of pride. She could be a strange duck, sometimes, that Hermione Granger.

“But then, when I told him about it—”

“Wait, you _told him_?” Ron blinked. “Like, you told Malfoy—_this_ Malfoy—you’d popped in from the future for shits and giggles? And he _believed you_?”

“Well—obviously I didn’t put it _that_ way, but…yeah? I mean, I _think_ he believed me. He must have, a little. Otherwise he wouldn’t have been so pissed off when I told him he was dead.”

“Oh, _Harry_…” Hermione said again, and this time the tone leaned heavily on the disappointment. “You didn’t…”

But he had. He’d _had_ to. “He got…angry. _Really_ angry. He’s not exactly a ray of sunshine on his best days, but I think he might’ve done me genuine harm if I hadn’t removed myself from the premises, and damn his probation. He said—” Harry grimaced, recalling Malfoy’s sheet-white face of fury, spitting rage. “He said he didn’t want to be my ‘pity project’, and that I was just hanging around him to make myself feel better because I like saving people, but I’m _not_—I mean, I _do_ think it’ll make me feel better, but for fuck’s sake!” He threw his hands into the air dramatically. “He’s _dead_ where I’m from! And I’m the bad guy for wanting to help him turn his life around before it’s too late? For trying to help him make sure everything doesn’t just go to pot for him?”

There was a long, heavy silence, Hermione and Ron looking at each other, at Harry, around the room, like neither wanted to be the one to say it. In the end, though, it was Ron: “You just can’t leave well enough alone with that one, can you?” He shook his head, a little fond and a little irritated, like Hermione.

Harry felt his temper rising, because _god_, was no one in this timeline willing to see sense? Was everyone just so preoccupied with frivolous ideas like pride and self-sufficiency and misconstrued notions of some parties being unaccountably obsessed with others that they refused to step back and see the bigger picture? He looked to Hermione, hoping she might back him up, if for no other reason than she had a _thing_ about helping the helpless.

She caught his eye, lips pursed, and sighed. “…First off, I’ll be on the record saying I _don’t_ like us knowing so much about the future. Even if it’s not _our_ future, it’s still not good for us to have so much information. Look at all the trouble you’re causing, telling others about their own future—”

“But I—”

Hermione held up a hand, though, to silence him. “And…and I think I can understand where he’s coming from.”

That sealed it: everyone in this timeline was of their rockers, and Harry wanted to scream some more. Maybe he could sneak up to the Room after curfew, to be sure he wouldn’t accidentally cross paths with Malfoy, and just shout himself hoarse. He ran his fingers through his hair and resisted the urge to rip it out by the roots, but only barely. “But he _doesn’t want to die_! He told me himself! I sat there, with him, in that dark, dank cell and I heard him say so. He was _scared_—”

“All right, maybe he doesn’t, you’re right.” Hermione was speaking in that calming, gentle tone he’d heard mothers use on recalcitrant children when they were being unreasonable, and his temper flared again. “But surely you can see it’s rather a lot to take in, and you’re probably the last person on earth he wants to lose face in front of. You’re _you_, an even more intimidating presence now than before, and you’ve just walked up to him and told him that he’s going to ruin his life, that it’s all downhill from here, and that he somehow sank so low—got so scared, as you put it—that he called on _you_ for comfort. Can’t you see how humiliating that would be?”

“I don’t give a fuck if it’s _humiliating_—it’s his life!”

“It’s Malfoy, mate,” Ron said with a shrug. “Life’s probably not worth living for his type if he doesn’t have his pride intact.”

And that was bullshit—it was fine to say such things in jest, but this was a man’s life they were discussing. “No one—be they a Malfoy or some other Pureblood or Salazar Slytherin himself—is going to place their pride over the chance to survive.” Hell, it was built into their House motto, even!

“We aren’t saying he wouldn’t fight, if it came down to it,” Hermione said, and Ron snorted (“Speak for yourself.”) but ducked his head when she gave him a reproachful look. “It’s only—” She sighed, shaking her head. “Surely you must know how much respect he has for you.”

“How much _fear_ he’s got of Harry, more like it,” Ron added, and Hermione didn’t correct him.

“Either way, this sort of thing, coming from you…well, I can’t say I’m surprised he reacted the way he did. Plus—” She gave a little wince. “I…kind of have to agree with him: this _does_ sound a bit like a pity thing. Or a—saving people thing.”

“A saving people—_thing_?” Harry boggled. “I’m an Auror! A fifth-year, even! I just got my own office!” And all right, that was a lie. He’d gotten a set of dividers that cordoned off his desk from the others in the bullpen, but that was only because Robards had finally tired of him and Peakes bewitching Intraoffice Memos to dive-bomb one another’s workspaces. “Saving people is _literally_ my job!” He shook his head, baffled she was actually taking _Malfoy’s_ side—the both of them were! “So what am I supposed to do, then? Just—just let it happen? Sit here and not do anything at all?”

“This is why I said you shouldn’t tell anyone about their future…” she sighed, draping herself over Ron’s back. He reached up to give one of her hands a squeeze, resting his head against hers. “And…no. I’m _not_ saying that. I _should_ be saying that, but you’d probably just ignore me, because what could _I_ possibly know about the dangers of fiddling with the timeline?” Harry suddenly found the flagstones beneath his feet very interesting. “I’m simply saying…that you should think long and hard about _why_ you’re doing this. Why Malfoy? Why not anyone else? Do everyone else’s lives turn out just fine?” Harry opened his mouth to answer, reflexively, but Hermione barrelled on. “That was a rhetorical question, Harry; I don’t actually want to know.” She placed a hand on his arm, forcing him to meet her eye. “I just want you to think about it. Until you can justify it to yourself…you probably shouldn’t try to justify it to Malfoy.”

She then slid off the bed, kissing Harry on the cheek and encouraging Ron to his feet with a gentle inclination of her head towards the door. Ron scrambled off the bed, clapping Harry on the shoulder. “Er, good luck with your Malfoy mission, mate. If you need any help…” He made a face. “Ask someone else.”

Harry just stood there, watching the two of them stumble from the room in their haste to find new nooks in which to, presumably, canoodle, and decided that his friends were wankers and he did not like them very much after all.


	6. Chapter 6

Concluding that neither of his best mates was going to be of any aid to him in his efforts to keep Malfoy from dying, Harry resolved to leave them out of the business altogether and take matters into his own hands. Hermione wouldn’t let him explain why it was particularly important to sort out Malfoy’s future over anyone else’s, and Ron wouldn’t want to have anything to do with Harry’s ‘mission’ once he learned Malfoy’s sentence had been handed down as punishment for an attempt on Arthur’s life. And that was actually all right, Harry had decided, because he had A Plan.

His friends could not be relied upon for help—Hermione had refused to touch any ‘timeline fiddling’ with a barge pole and Ron was more keen than usual to stay on his girlfriend’s good side (“Look, just because _you_ aren’t getting any in the near-to-far future doesn’t mean the rest of us should suffer similarly!”)—and Harry was beginning to accept that pestering Malfoy into letting Harry fix his fucked-up life was not going to get him very far. He’d even stopped visiting the Room, worried that Malfoy might try to make good on the Hex he’d threatened, or else use whatever remained of his family fortune to hire someone else to curse Harry in his stead.

No, this was a mission he would have to undertake alone. Working solo had served him just fine as an Auror—so why shouldn’t it here as well? After all, the first time in a long while he’d been teamed up to work alongside another, and it’d gotten him thrown back in time! Partners were decidedly overrated, and Harry would make better headway handling this matter entirely on his own. 

It would be up to him to make all the fine adjustments to whatever events he could think of that might have caused Malfoy to go down the dark path that had ultimately landed him in Azkaban. He had a few in mind already, and Malfoy was sure to thank him later. Likely much, _much_ later, but at least he’d be alive to do so.

Perhaps the most urgent of these ‘fine adjustments’ was the task of keeping Lucius Malfoy from dying in Azkaban. Having your dad stuck in prison couldn’t possibly keep you in a good head space, but not having him _at all_ was probably even worse for your mental health, all things considered—Harry at least would rather have had James Potter be an incarcerated felon than dead. So that was the first order of business: save Lucius Malfoy’s life.

Azkaban was ridiculously well-guarded, so the deed might have been easy enough to manage had the threat come from external parties—but Lucius had been gutted with a hand-carved shiv by one of his own block-mates, and protecting him from another prisoner was going to be a much trickier thing.

Trickier, but not impossible.

“Hey, Potter?”

Harry glanced up from his Transfiguration essay—all one-and-a-half inches of it, most of which was just his name and the date—when a Sixth Year he didn’t recognise called his name. She had her long, blond hair flicked back over one shoulder, proudly displaying her Prefect badge, and was giving him a look that suggested she was considering testing whether or not Prefects were allowed to dock points from Eighth Years. Like a female Malfoy in Gryffindor colours—it was unnerving, to say the least.

“Yeah?”

Ms. Prefect inclined her head to the portrait hole through which she’d just stepped. “The Headmistress asked to see you in her office—password’s ‘argyle socks’.”

“McGonagall?” Ms. Prefect wrinkled her nose at the casual way he spoke of their professor—god, teenagers were the _worst_. “What for?”

“It’s none of my business, is it?” she sniffed, and then with a smile she did not entirely manage to hide, “She didn’t look very happy, though; I’d double time it, if I were you.”

Harry didn’t know how someone with so much naked ambition for the Head Girl position had gotten sorted into Gryffindor, but he was grateful for the excuse to put off his essay for a bit longer. Besides, he reckoned he had a good idea what McGonagall was in a snit over. He Banished his homework back to his room and stepped out into the corridor, making for the Headmistress’s office. The gargoyle on the third floor politely stepped aside when Harry offered the password, and he stuffed his hands in his pockets, wondering if McGonagall would be alone in her office—or if they might have the company he’d summoned.

As it turned out, McGonagall was alone, and probably better for it, as Ms. Prefect had been right in her judgement that the Headmistress ‘didn’t look very happy’. She was seated behind her desk, seeing to what looked to be a large pile of Transfiguration marking, but when Harry softly knocked on her open door, she quickly whisked the scrolls away with a flick of her wand and Charmed a chair to scoop Harry up and deposit him directly before her. 

She stabbed her wand at a tiny little scroll, held unrolled by the weight of a teacup and an inkwell. “Would you care to explain, Mr. Potter, why the Minister for Magic himself has just Owled me with a request to use _my_ Floo to speak with you? In _private_?”

No, he didn’t care to explain, actually, but seeing as he was technically barely eighteen here, and still a student, he couldn’t give her half the cheek he’d enjoyed in their casual interactions since his graduation years back. “Er, well I needed to discuss an important matter with him, and face-to-face was best, but I can’t exactly pop into London, so I thought…” Her expression was growing tighter and tighter the longer he went on, and worried something was going to rip if he didn’t soothe her ruffled feathers promptly, he added, “But—of course I should have asked you first, Headmistress. It’s only a bit time-sensitive, so I took the liberty.”

“Quite the liberty indeed. And Minister Shacklebolt tells me you made this request via _Patronus_.” She gave him a long look, lips pursed as if she were sucking on a lemon. “The war’s over, Potter. You can send an owl, like the rest of us. No need to be unaccountably _flashy_.”

“It wasn’t flash, Headmistress,” Harry said with a frown. “I told you, it was urgent, and…and besides, I haven’t gotten myself a new owl just yet…” It was as true here in the past as in Harry’s present. He never used owls, if he could avoid it—just didn’t feel right, replacing Hedwig like that. If he needed to send messages, Floo calls or his Patronus served him perfectly well, and for all other companionship purposes, he had Lucille the Beezilbud. Being a carnivorous plant, she didn’t speak much, but Harry thought she listened rather well, and in that she was a perfect successor to Hedwig. 

“I’m sure one of the school owls would have sufficed,” McGonagall said, mouth still tight, and her brows knit together in concern. “…Is there anything I need to know, Potter? If there are any ‘important matters’ afoot that merit a discussion with the Minister himself, I believe I’m entitled to—”

“Of course you are, Headmistress. Of course—but it’s…it’s really something I’d like to keep…well, quiet for now. Just between me and Kingsley.”

“_Minister Shacklebolt_,” McGonagall reminded him tartly. “At least so long as you’re sleeping in Gryffindor Tower.”

Harry ducked his head, certain he’d need such admonishment on a regular basis. “Yes, ma’am. But honestly, it’s nothing that’s going to be a danger to the castle or any of its students.” Not for another seven years, at least. “Just, it _is_ something I need to talk to the Minister about as soon as possible, and privately, also if it can be arranged. So…so would it be all right if we borrowed your Floo? Just for—maybe fifteen minutes?”

She made a distressed sound in the back of her throat, but then sighed and reached for the teacup holding down the little scroll she’d received from Kingsley. It promptly curled back up at one end as McGonagall pushed her chair back from her desk, standing. “…The Minister will Floo this office on the hour. I’ll be doing my marking in my quarters until you’ve finished your business.”

She then scooped up the rest of the essays and sent them flying on ahead of her, through an unobtrusive door set at the rear of the office, and after giving Harry a dismissive nod, she took herself and her teacup out of the office as well.

Several large clocks with shiny brass pendulums stood sentinel behind McGonagall’s desk—most marked the time at other wizarding schools around the globe, but the one in the middle bearing a placard reading in gilt lettering ‘HOGWARTS’ showed the time to be eight fifty-five in the evening. Harry sank back into his chair and closed his eyes.

He hoped Kingsley wasn’t Flooing just to tell Harry to shove his suggestion. It was unorthodox, admittedly, for a Hogwarts student to ask for a meeting with the most powerful figure in wizarding Britain, but Harry reckoned he still had some influence he could comfortably bring to bear, and this was _Kingsley_, a member of the Order of the Phoenix first and Minister for Magic second. If nothing else, he would at least hear Harry out before letting him down gently.

The _whoosh_ of the Floo activating jolted Harry out of the light doze he’d nearly slipped into, and Harry sprang up from his chair just in time to see Kingsley awkwardly manoeuvre his tall, sinewy frame through McGonagall’s fireplace. He just missed bumping his head on the mantle, drawing himself up to his full height and tugging on his Minister’s robes to settle the fabric along its proper folds. It was clear to Harry he was still getting used to the position, not having yet attained the grace and gravitas with which he would represent his office in the years to come.

“Harry,” Kingsley greeted, sweeping the room with a glance. “I take it the Headmistress will not be joining us?”

“She had some marking to do,” Harry said. “I…er, thought it might be better if we spoke in private, and Professor McGonagall was most understanding.”

“I’m sure she was,” came the dry response, and while Kingsley was not smiling as he let himself sink into McGonagall’s chair, his eyes had a twinkle to them. “I’m glad to see you’re doing well. Are you enjoying your return to school?”

“As much as one can,” Harry said, in all honesty. “But I don’t reckon the Minister for Magic cares much about how difficult a student finds their N.E.W.T.-level Charms coursework.”

“Quite the contrary, I’m very invested in the education of young witches and wizards now. But I see your point.” He gestured for Harry to retake his seat. “I confess, I was not expecting to receive a Patronus message in the middle of brunch with the MACUSA ambassador. Impeccable timing, really.”

Harry winced; off to a fantastic start already. “Er, well, the message was time-sensitive, and I didn’t want to chance it getting lost in what I expect’s a rather full post bin for you these days.”

“Well, you impressed Ambassador Breckenridge at least—but be aware the stunt won’t work again; my security chief’s understandably not happy realising that anyone with a bit of Charms proficiency can harass the Minister for Magic whenever they please. Proper channels next time, yes? Or speak to your Headmistress first.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry said, perhaps too quickly, for Kingsley held his eye for a long beat, and when he spoke again, it was in tones rather more familiar and entirely too understanding.

“I’m sure it’s taken a bit of adjustment, settling back in after all…well, all the excitement.” Harry bristled internally; Kingsley damn well knew there had been nothing _exciting_ about living rough for nine fucking months, terrified for the lives of himself and all he knew and loved, having to watch good people—brave, smart, amazing people—be slaughtered for no good reason. “But you needn’t try and do everything on your own these days. You can bring your concerns to those around you without bending over backwards just to get in touch with me. Headmistress McGonagall—”

“—is just that: the Headmistress of Hogwarts. She’s a fine professor and doing Dumbledore proud in her position, but—sir—she’s got no say in the management of prisoners at Azkaban. You do.” It was becoming rapidly clear Kingsley considered this conversation a favour on his part, meant to soothe Harry’s ruffled feathers and remind him he was acting out of line and, now the war was over, should return to his place as a student and leave the running of the wizarding world to those endowed with the appropriate power to do so. Kingsley was fair, Kingsley was just, but Kingsley didn’t look at Harry now and see a peer. He saw the Boy—the _Boy_—Who Lived. For the first time since he’d been sent back, Harry was feeling the full weight of his apparent youth, and though seven years was not such a terribly long time in the grand scheme of things, it was seven years that Kingsley had not had to see Harry prove himself an essential asset to the Ministry. 

Kingsley sighed, then nodded. “Indeed, she does not, and I do.” He steepled his fingers. “Would you care to explain the meaning of your message, in that case?”

“I thought it was pretty straightforward,” Harry said. He’d practised this bit and forced himself to slow down as he spoke, so it didn’t come off like a recitation. “I received a tip that Lucius Malfoy’s life is in danger, so for his own safety, he ought to be moved to solitary confinement.”

Kingsley’s expression gave nothing away. “You received a tip.”

“I did.”

“From whom?”

“I’d rather not say.”

“Another student? A rogue Death Eater?”

“I’d _rather_ not say.”

“A vision, perhaps?”

And all right, now he was taking the piss out of Harry. “Minister, I’m quite serious.”

“As am I—you’re asking me to have one of our most valuable assets as far as tracking down the remaining followers of Voldemort moved, for reasons you seem unwilling to share, from his very secure cell in our very secure wizarding prison. Trust I am _absolutely_ serious, Harry, when I say you’d better give me a _damn _good reason not to haul you back through that Floo and have you interrogated under Veritaserum to determine just why Harry Potter would make such a request of the Minister for Magic.”

Harry stiffened; well _fuck_, now he’d gone and triggered Kingsley’s suspicions. Kingsley wasn’t any more the well-meaning Ministry official than Harry was a hapless student just trying to scrape by, and while Harry appreciated he was still every inch the Order member here as he’d been six months before, he didn’t need it brought to bear _just_ now.

Harry ran a hand through his hair, standing to pace. “I—all right, when you put it like that, it sounds fishy. And…and if it’d make you feel better, then fine, I’ll speak to you under whatever conditions you like. Though I’m _pretty_ sure you’re aware I can shake off Veritaserum just as well as I can the Imperius Curse, which isn’t to say _very_ well, but enough you’d not get a straight answer out of me if I didn’t want to give it to you.” He stalked forward, placing his hands on the desk. “Kingsley. I’m not asking you to let him go. I’m just asking you to lock him up somewhere _more_ secure. Somewhere no one but you can get at him. A deep, dark hole with a twenty-four-hour watch, so he can’t even piss in private.”

Kingsley met his eye, still hard and wary. “I’m still waiting on a reason _why_.”

“Because he is _going to die_. Another inmate’s planning on murdering him. I don’t know _when_, but soon. You’ve just said yourself he’s an invaluable asset for hunting down the Death Eaters who ran to ground after Voldemort’s fall, right? Well a Lucius Malfoy alive and able to turn Minister’s evidence against his fellows is better than a dead one, right?” Kingsley pursed his lips, and Harry went for the kill. “You trusted my judgement enough to offer me that Auror position; trust me on this, too.”

“I’m beginning to reconsider that offer,” Kingsley said, tone dry once more, and Harry felt his spirits lighten.

“I can’t say I’d blame you—but I’m _not_ trying to do everything on my own for once. I’m asking _you_.”

“And if I were to reject your suggestion?”

Harry firmed his jaw; he’d been prepared for his. “Then I’ll go to Robards next. I haven’t got the history with him I’ve got with you, so I don’t reckon he’ll be open to listening to an eighteen-year-old harangue him about prisoner disposition, but I’m still going to try. Because this isn’t just serious, Kingsley. It’s _important._”

Kingsley straightened, frown creasing into something a bit more curious. “…What _are_ you up to, Potter?”

“I’m not ‘up to’ anything. I’m only telling you that a person’s life is in danger and asking for your help in protecting them. You don’t even have to do what I’m asking—just do whatever you need to in order to keep anyone from harming him.” He tilted his chin up. “It’s not just the education of young witches and wizards you’re meant to be responsible for, right?”

Kingsley shook his head with a sigh. “I suppose not.” He rubbed at his chin and shook a finger at Harry. “I’m trusting you on this, Potter. I’m sure I shouldn’t—I ought to know better, given your _history_ of making much ado about nothing—”

“I _haven’t_—!” Harry started hotly; his visions when Voldemort had opened his mind to Harry had saved a few lives (and led to a few lost as well…), and he’d been right about Malfoy being a Death Eater intent on mischief in Sixth Year, hadn’t he?

Kingsley held a hand up, though, stopping him before he got really going. “I only mean that your judgement has proven…_biased_ in the past.” He pursed his lips. “Especially where the Malfoys are concerned.” And Harry had nothing to say to that. “…But as I said, I’ll trust you on this matter.”

“Thank you, sir,” Harry said.

“I _will_ be looping Robards and his team in on this, though. If you’re saying someone’s after Lucius Malfoy’s life, then it merits a proper investigation.”

“Of course.” He had to bite his tongue to keep from admitting he already knew who was going to make the attempt, and when, and with what, because he’d practically memorised the case file, but doling out such tidbits would only arouse suspicion, and Kingsley was already half-suspecting Harry was angling to off Lucius himself. No, the more eyes were fixed on Malfoy’s father, the less likely it was any desperate inmates would find a way to gut him and leave him bleeding out on the floor come Christmas Eve.

Their business done, and McGonagall likely wanting her office back, Kingsley bid Harry farewell with a final reminder to use an owl next time, then disappeared through the Floo in a puff of green flame. Harry continued staring into the cold, empty grate after he’d left, his stomach twisting in knots, because this was it. The first real step he’d taken to helping Malfoy un-fuck his future. Granted, he’d done it quite without Malfoy’s permission, but the outcome would be the same. Or rather, it _wouldn’t_ be the same, Harry hoped.

Only time would tell.

All was quiet for the next week. The Common Room was less obliging with requests for fancy furniture atop which to do his homework than the Room of Requirement had been, and if he wanted silver-nibbed Abraxan-feather quills like Malfoy used or the latest issue of _Quidditch Weekly_ to take into the toilet, he was going to have to procure such niceties himself. But there were always students about, making the whole place lively and cosy, and in the evenings, Ron would draw up a chair alongside Harry’s to get his own schoolwork done while Hermione sat on the floor between Ron’s legs, steadily working her way through a stack of books nearly as tall as herself in her quest to learn as much as she could about the Ouroboros and help Harry return to his own time. For Harry’s part, he wasn’t too fussed about going back, though he appreciated her efforts. He simply wasn’t intent on leaving until he’d done everything he possibly could to see Malfoy back on the straight and narrow. 

She seemed content to research on her own, visibly relieved to have Harry back in the Common Room, though he did not deign to mention what had prompted him to steer clear of the Room of Requirement for the time being. He’d left off with Malfoy entirely now; he was still a bit peeved off with him for one, and for another, he needed time to plan his next step. With Malfoy’s father secured, the next order of business would be making sure Malfoy’s _mother_ stayed put herself. He hoped, with her husband still alive, she’d have no cause to flee the country, but there was no guarantee. Perhaps there was no love lost between Malfoy’s parents; after all, Narcissa had only left for the continent when talk had begun circulating in the wake of Lucius’s murder that perhaps the Wizengamot ought to revisit some of the more lenient sentences doled out after the war. 

Yes, his next order of business would be to find a way to keep Narcissa in the country—forcibly, if necessary. Her son’s life was on the line, after all, and this would do nicely to repay the life debt he owed her.

But while Harry busied himself with homework and revisions and plans on how to keep all three Malfoys alive and well for as long as humanly possible, Malfoy had evidently been doing a bit of plotting of his own—a point to which Harry was made aware when, on his way to Charms just after breakfast one day, he was dragged into an empty, unused classroom by his _Accio_ed tie.

He stumbled along after it in a desperate bid to avoid being throttled, clutching at the bit of fabric with butterfingers—then was abruptly released from the spell as the door to what looked to be an old Potions lab slammed shut behind him, rattling the ceramic jars and glassware lining the wall.

Someone shoved Harry up against the door, and though he could not make out their features easily in the dim light of the unlit lab, there was no mistaking that sharp, woodsy scent—definitely high-end boutique potions, he’d concluded.

“What the _fuck_ do you think you’re doing, Potter?” Malfoy snarled, his forearm braced against Harry’s throat like he meant to choke off his air. Maybe he did—he sounded angry enough. Harry squirmed, but this only encouraged Malfoy to press down harder, his nose nearly brushing Harry’s as he leaned in close. “I know this is somehow down to _you_, so I want to know—what—the fuck—you’re doing.” He punctuated his words with vicious pressure on Harry’s windpipe, and Harry wanted to laugh, because this was _Draco Malfoy_, resorting to physical violence. How Muggle of him.

“Nice—to see you—too,” Harry rasped, using what precious air Malfoy was letting into his lungs to be a smartarse. Maybe F had had a point about his ‘fast and loose’ approach to Auroring and how it did him more harm than good.

Malfoy continued to lay into him, though, unconcerned with Harry’s need to breathe. “I received an Owl from my mother at breakfast this morning. Now, this was curious, because Mother usually sends one of the Manor birds when she’s writing to me from her apartments, but this was one of those mangy, underfed mongrels the Ministry keeps on hand for public use. She was distraught, you see, and couldn’t wait until she returned home to dash off a letter to me. Well _evidently_ she’d been informed by some pissant at the Ministry that her Portkey credentials to Azkaban had been revoked until further notice, as my father had been moved to Solitary Confinement and would no longer be permitted visitors. Now, my mother’s a woman of good breeding, but she wasn’t about to take _piss off_ for an answer, so she marched herself straight into the office of the Head Auror, Roberts—”

“Ro—bards…” Harry corrected with a gasping grimace.

“Oh yes, right. She marched into his office and demanded an explanation. You’ve seen how the Black women can get when things don’t quite go their way, Potter, I know you have, so I’m sure you can sympathise with poor Auror Ro_bards_—” He stressed the pronunciation, practically spitting it in Harry’s face. “—And after what I can only assume was a pleasant chat over tea and not the threat of heinous legal action, she learned that the Ministry had received an ‘anonymous tip’ that my father’s life was in danger and that his new quarters had been arranged for his own safety.”

He finally—_finally_—eased up off of Harry’s neck, grabbing him by his robes and shaking him so hard his head gave a loud _thunk_ as it connected with the heavy oak door guarding the classroom, sending stars spangling across his line of vision. 

“I _know_ those prigs over at the Ministry don’t give two shits about a Death Eater long since fallen from grace who they surely must know couldn’t direct them to the Dark Lord’s _chamber pot_ let alone divulge the whereabouts of any comrades who might still be on the run, so that must mean, then, that someone _wanted_ my father locked away, robbed of what little remained of the human contact he’d been granted, indefinitely. No one with the authority to order that sort of punishment cares enough about him to bother, and the only other person who comes to mind—the only one with that much _pull_, to reach all the way up the bureaucratic ladder to the Minister for Magic himself and make unreasonable demands—is _Harry. Fucking. Potter_. So again, I ask—” He grabbed a hunk of Harry’s hair, forcing their eyes to meet, and Harry felt a shiver ripple down his spine at the blind fury he saw in that sharp gaze. Malfoy was _livid_. “What the _fuck_ do you think you’re doing?”

Malfoy’s breathing came heavy and laboured as his rant concluded, and Harry gave himself a moment to bask, once more, in how very alive Malfoy was—all beating heart and spitting fury—before he swallowed, praying his voice held after Malfoy’s rough treatment, and said, “Your dad _dies_ in Azkaban, Malfoy. Murdered in his own cell on Christmas Eve—this year. There’s no appeals, no daring escapes; he just _dies_. And no one gives a shit. The inmate responsible gets six months in solitary and another fifteen years tacked on to his life sentence—not even the Kiss!—and it’s out of the papers within a week.” The wild look in Malfoy’s eyes subsided, gone soft with confusion, and his grip on Harry’s robes relaxed a tick. Harry licked his lips, pressing his luck. “You won’t let me help you sort out your future? Fine. But I’m not going to let—”

Malfoy jerked him away from the door, shoving him with what must have been every ounce of his gangly teenage strength, and Harry found himself slammed into the corner of one of the lab benches. Pain, sharp and hot, flared in his side, and Harry sank to the floor wincing as his vision flashed purple and yellow and colours he couldn’t name. That was probably going to leave a mark, and whether Malfoy meant it or not, he was likely going to send Harry to Pomfrey before this was finished. 

“It’s _not your place_!” he spat, kicking at Harry with his freshly polished loafers. Harry curled up, drawing his knees to his chest, and raised a hand to ward off further assaults on his person. “He’s _my_ father, not yours! Just because _your_ parents are dead, it doesn’t mean you get to go around meddling in the affairs of other people’s!”

Harry was torn between grudging amusement at the absurdity of that logic and hot anger Malfoy was taking this as some sort of personal affront. “He’s a _human being_—”

“Oh _fuck off_ with your sanctimonious tripe!” Malfoy scoffed, lip curling, and he kicked at a desk, which was better than kicking at Harry, so he was welcome to it. “He tried to kill you—several times over! You don’t give a _fuck_ what happens to him.” He had his chin jutted out, all defiant bravado, and Harry had about had enough.

“You’re right, I don’t!” He struggled to his feet with a wince, holding his side and breathing hard with the effort. “I didn’t give a shit about him before, and I don’t give a shit about him now, _but_—” He held up a finger, because Malfoy looked like he was ready to pop off again. “But—maybe if…if you’d had _something_ left here, if your father hadn’t been dead, and your mother god-knows-where, then maybe—”

He cut off when Malfoy gave a soft, deranged little chuckle that devolved into a fit of mad giggles. Malfoy began pacing, running his fingers through his hair and mussing the carefully arranged coif. It made him look a bit more like Harry had seen him in Azkaban, and Harry didn’t like that one bit. “You’re really doing this, aren’t you? You’re still—” He wiped a hand over his face, laughter dying away as his features twisted, and he turned on Harry with renewed venom. “Stop _fucking around_ with my life! It’s my life—_mine_!” He jabbed his thumb into his chest. “If it goes to shit, then it goes to shit, and that’s _my problem_, not yours!”

“_Your_ problem, is it? Your problem, when you dragged me to Azkaban with your ‘last request’ bullshit, when you made sure I knew when you were getting the Kiss _down to the last second_, when you reached out to me, _finally_, but only when it was too damn late for me to do anything about it?” The pang in his side flared white-hot, but he clamped down on the urge to slump into one of the chairs scattered about by Malfoy’s dramatics; this was a conversation he needed to be on his feet for. “Did you ever think,” he huffed, teeth grit, “That maybe I _don’t want you to die_?”

Malfoy took a haggard breath, expression gone all wrong, just wrong, and he spat back bitterly, “Did you ever think that maybe I _do_?”

Harry drew back—actually recoiled—and the shock of those words, thrown at his feet, made his stomach turn. Malfoy was leaning against the potions bench now, leaving tracks in the film of dust that had settled across the counter, and he looked so tired, so…so defeated. It didn’t take much effort for Harry to look at him and see his robes turned to filthy rags, the classroom transformed into a dank, mouldy nine by nine cell, and all his life, that cruel, malicious spark, drained away.

Was that how Malfoy actually felt? Did he _want_ this? Did he think that…that he _deserved_ this? Had Harry, in his blundering, misguided efforts at _fixing_, simply reassured Malfoy that he’d get his penance in the end, all he had to do was wait?

But then he remembered, _“Fucked up, don’t you think?”_ and, _“I wanted to see you, obviously,”_ and, _“Does it hurt?”_ He remembered Malfoy feigning bravado before ultimately betraying his terror, the stubborn, infuriating fight he still had in him, his struggle to syphon whatever courage he could from Harry before he met his fate.

He’d been _terrified_. No—no, he didn’t want this. Sure, he might think he deserved it—and maybe the other Malfoy (_My Malfoy_, Harry had taken to calling him in his head, though that begged the question of whose this one was) _had_ deserved it. Harry had certainly thought so when he’d spat it in his face, after all. 

Or maybe he’d just given up, retreated into the mold everyone else had cast him in, as he was too damn tired to try and fight it any longer.

But no two Malfoys were alike, Harry was learning; this one hadn’t made the wrong choice at every turn, hadn’t rolled over and just _taken it_. Not yet, at least. Which meant Harry had time—all the time in existence, really—to show _this one_ he still had choices. That he hadn’t yet passed the point of no return—that he never _had_ to—and that what he did now, what he decided, what he _wanted_ still mattered.

He drew himself up as tall as he could—which never had been and never would be as tall as Malfoy, dammit—tamping down on the shooting pain in his side, and bid his voice to hold steady, because maybe, finally, Malfoy would hear him, actually _listen_ to what he was saying, instead of taking in Harry’s words and twisting them all up into knots he could pick apart as he pleased.

“I got to come back,” he said, softly at first so as not to tax his voice. “I asked for it, in my own way, and I got to come _back_. To make a _difference_. You can call it a ‘Saviour Complex’ if you like, but you can’t think, having known me nearly half my life, that I wouldn’t want to change things—to give someone a second chance—if I could, can you? You can’t tell me _you_ wouldn’t do anything, even the tiniest, most seemingly insignificant thing, different if you could, right? If you knew it might make a difference somehow?” 

Malfoy had his head turned in profile, gaze fixed on the shuttered windows, through the slats of which could be seen faint shafts of morning light. Harry was missing Charms. 

“You keep going back to the Room. I couldn’t figure out why, at first—I thought it was mad. Why would you want to go back to a place you nearly _died_ in? Where people you knew—friends, I’d assumed—_did_ die? But it’s not that you _want_ to go, is it? You make yourself go. Because you feel like you have to. _That’s_ your Azkaban right now. No matter how many chintzy pillows you Conjure or chaise-longues you call up, it’s still a place something terrible happened to you. And you go there, because you feel like you belong there. Like you _deserve_ to be there. As punishment.” Harry took a step forward, pausing when Malfoy’s jaw went tight, and even in the dim light, this close, he could see the subtle bob of Malfoy’s throat as he swallowed thickly. “So don’t try to tell me you don’t have at least _one_ thing you wish you could change. And don’t give me shit just because I’m managing it.”

Malfoy’s head snapped around, those cool, grey eyes fixed on Harry—and Harry wondered if he was going to lay into him again. The fists clenched at Malfoy’s side suggested he might, but he also looked just as liable to make a break for it, as if Harry was in any fit state to chase him down. 

Malfoy’s lip twitched, like he was trying to sneer but couldn’t quite manage the bravado for it. “Your right to _manage_ anything ends at my right to live my life as I see fit.”

“And your right to live your life as you see fit ended when you made me a part of it. It’s not just _you_ you’re fucking over now. It’s me, too. You made yourself my regret, asking for me to be there, with you, at the end. If nothing else, you owe it to me to let me try and rid my conscience of you.”

Malfoy went a flattering shade of red, enchantingly incensed. “I _owe it to you_—?”

“Tell me again.” Malfoy’s mouth hung open, wobbling a bit in confusion before snapping shut. Harry hoped he was saying the right things. He was running out of options—so it was time to play things a bit faster and looser than he had, let those Gryffindor colours run free. “Tell me—and I know you’ll enjoy it—to go away. Tell me to fuck off. Tell me that you really, _truly_, want me to leave and never bother you again. Tell me that you’d like it very much if I would _not_ try to help you not die, even though I’m standing here, in this musty potions lab, with a stitch the size of the Isle of Man in my side and bruises shaped like your fingers on my neck, saying that I would prefer it if you stuck around and lived. Look me in the eye—and tell me you’d _rather die_ than take my hand. And I’ll leave you be.”

And whether because Harry had told him to do it, or because he just couldn’t look away, Malfoy stared at him—glared at him—and spat, “The fuck you will."

“I will,” Harry said, all calm and complacent. He held an arm out, tugging up his sleeve. “I’ll make an Unbreakable Vow even, if you want.”

Malfoy stared down at his arm with a curled lip, body angled carefully away, as if Harry were leprous. “…I don’t know how to make one of those.”

Harry let his arm fall back, shrugging. “…Neither do I, come to think of it. Guess you’ll have to take me at my word, then. I must not tell lies, I was once told.”

It was, of course, a bluff. And Malfoy probably knew it. But if this was going to work, really work, then it had to be _his _decision. 

Malfoy was a stubborn fool—qualities not entirely foreign to House Gryffindor, Harry was ready to remind—but he also had a self-preservation streak a mile wide, and whether or not he thought he deserved his fate, Harry _knew_ he didn’t want it. 

But he’d never accept Harry’s help, not when it was offered. He wouldn’t even _ask_ for it. It had to be a demand, or an _if you must_, because Malfoy was _Malfoy_, and he preferred to haul his own weight, lest he seem weak. Harry could respect that, and he was willing to do whatever was needed in order for Malfoy to feel responsible for his own well-being, so long as the end result was Harry finally losing this albatross dangling from his neck.

Malfoy pinched his lips, tight, and made a pained sound in the back of his throat—before lashing out with one arm to sweep a tray of glassware off the benchtop. The tubes and flasks and beakers of all sorts crashed to the floor in a brilliant tinkling cacophony, and Harry jerked back reflexively, his hand going to the wand he had stowed in his trousers pocket. 

Malfoy leaned over the benchtop, hands gripping the edge and shoulders rigid and tense, and clenched his eyes shut so tight Harry thought he might pop a vein. Something wracked his body, the long lean line of his back shuddering, and he bit out in a breathy, angry rush, “I don’t want to die.” Harry watched him, dumbstruck, for a long moment, until Malfoy lifted his head slowly, the fall of his hair hiding his eyes, and said with more conviction. “I _don’t want to die_.” He cocked his head, just enough so he could pin Harry with one eye, hooded and hunted. “Happy?”

“Er,” Harry said, sizing him up to be sure Malfoy wasn’t liable to lash out again if he spoke wrongly. “…Yeah? I…I am, actually?” Was he not meant to be? The question sounded rhetorical, but what had Malfoy expected? “…Mostly wondering why it sounds like you’re _not_, really.”

“_Because_—” Malfoy started, whirling on Harry, and he might have sent more glassware or desks flying if he hadn’t destroyed most everything in his general vicinity. “I’m a _fucking coward_.”

“What?” Harry laughed, bemusement in his tone, because what a ridiculous notion that was. “How on earth is it _cowardly_ to not want to die? _Everyone_ would be a coward, then!”

“It’s obviously not the ‘not wanting to die’ bit, you jackarse. It’s—” He cut himself off, though, tossing his head in irritation. “Why do I even try? You wouldn’t understand.”

“Well if it’s not the ‘not wanting to die’ bit, then _what_? Because I don’t see anything about your situation that’s cowardly, sorry. I see _stupid_. I see _stubborn_. I see—borderline _suicidal_. But how is fighting to survive—which includes accepting help to that end—in any way cowardice? Isn’t that meant to be your House motto? Using any means to achieve your ends?” Malfoy had shut down, though, leaning back against the benchtop with his arms crossed over his chest and gaze slanted off to the side, so he didn’t have to listen to Harry’s speech. 

Too bad; Harry was on a roll. 

“I don’t want to die either,” he said, speaking from what he felt was well-informed experience. Oh, there had been times—more than he’d confessed to Ron and Hermione, if only so they wouldn’t worry—since he’d visited that dreamy out-of-time version of King’s Cross Station where he’d caught himself wondering if he might’ve been better off hopping one of the trains, as Dumbledore had euphemistically put it. But he’d never acted on those thoughts, and never would—not least because he could never have done that to his friends and family. He’d come back, and he was going to _stay_, for as long as he could manage it, even if he was still a bit cavalier with his well-being. “I’ll do whatever the hell it takes to keep on kicking.”

Malfoy made a face. “I _told_ you it wasn’t the ‘not wanting to die’ part—”

“It’s just the ‘having to accept help to do so’ part, then? I’m curious now—does the pride and self-reliance outweigh the self-preservation for you lot, or vice versa? Because I’m pretty sure you can’t strut about like you’re better than everyone if you’re dead.” Voldemort certainly had agreed, what with the six (give or take one) fail-safes he’d created in an effort to achieve some measure of immortality, and he’d been as Slytherin as they came. Harry lifted a brow. “Noble sacrifices and accepting one’s fate…that sounds an _awful_ lot like a Gryffindor to me.” Malfoy shuddered dramatically, rolling his shoulders, and Harry bit back a snort of amusement. “Wouldn’t want to go around sounding mis-Sorted, now would you?”

Malfoy shifted in place, bringing his gaze around to meet Harry’s. “Nice to see your understanding of other Houses hasn’t evolved since the Hat squawked out its endearing little ditty in First Year. Self-reliance and self-preservation are hardly mutually exclusive goals—and any good Slytherin will have them both handily managed under the best of circumstances.”

“So you’re just a really _bad_ Slytherin, then?”

Malfoy’s tone went frosty. “Well I don’t expect they’ll be giving me the Kiss because I rescued a Kneazle from a tree.”

“Oh piss off; you know that’s not what I meant. Who the fuck _cares_ anyway? This isn’t school—well, I mean, obviously it’s school—” Harry waved a hand around in a vague gesture. “But soon, it won’t be. It’ll just be you, living your life, and either making something of it or letting it go to pot. It won’t matter what House you were in or what colours you wore or even what side of the war you fought on. If you believe it’s cowardice to accept help, then I don’t see how I can convince you otherwise. But I’d like to see you call _me _a coward for hoping the Beaters did their job while I hunted for the Snitch—”

“That’s just _strategy_.”

“Or for asking Hermione to explain a confusing topic from Charms or Transfiguration—”

“That’s just you being _stupid_.”

“Or for calling in backup when I was hemmed in and outmanned on a raid on an illegal potions lab.”

“That—” Malfoy wrinkled his nose. “That hasn’t happened yet. So it doesn’t count.”

Harry rolled his eyes; now he was just being _difficult_. “Then call this _strategy_. Or admit you’re just stupid—I’ll attest to it, and perhaps that’s more palatable to you than your warped idea of cowardice.” He took a step closer, near enough now that, if Malfoy really wanted to, he could grab him by the robes again and shove him up against the nearest flat surface. “I saved your life once before; I’m rather good at it, if you’ll recall.”

Malfoy raked him with a withering glare. “Well now I want to die just to fuck with your lucky streak.”

Harry was losing his patience. “_Malfoy_—”

“I’m not going to be your project,” Malfoy sniffed, firm but with markedly less of a defensive tone. He still had his arms crossed over his chest, but Harry could see him slowly putting himself back together, smoothing down the wrinkles to his existence so that no one had to know he’d just been out of sorts. Harry wondered if he even had his wand on him, as he hadn’t brandished it once in their row, and if he’d be helping with the _Reparo_s that needed to be cast to set the lab back to rights. “You’ve told me I’m going to die, and that…” He swallowed thickly, running a tongue over his teeth. “It’s unacceptable.”

_Unacceptable_. As if he’d just been told that the dragonhide boots he’d ordered through Owl Post weren’t available in his size at the moment and he’d have to wait three to five weeks for the stock to be replenished.

But Harry could work with that, if that was how Malfoy wanted to approach the matter. “Then—”

“I will fix this,” Malfoy said, firm and confident. “_I_ will. By myself.”

And Harry could _not_ work with that, because—well, he _couldn’t_. He needed to see this through; he couldn’t leave here until he was certain that this entire misadventure had remotely mattered. This was his one shot—_Malfoy’s _one shot. And if this stubborn prig thought for one second Harry was going to stand idly by while—

“…But as it seems I won’t be rid of you,” Malfoy sighed with dramatic resignation, tugging on his robes to adjust the fall of the fabric, “If you really feel you _must_ stick your pockmarked nose where it’s least wanted, then by all means, amuse yourself with me—and me _alone_.” He moved to step past Harry, jostling their shoulders as he did so. “Have your lackeys move my father back to his old quarters.”

Harry let the ‘lackey’ comment slide, concerned foremost with what he felt was an ill-advised request. “But—he’s _safe_ now. Saf_er_, at least. Did you not hear what I said?” He reached out, grabbing Malfoy by the shoulder and whirling him around. “He _dies_, Malfoy. He’s _murdered_. What could it hurt, keeping him in solitary? Better he’s in there and alive than out and a target.”

Malfoy carefully plucked Harry’s hand from his shoulder with a wrinkled nose. “Yes, what _could_ it hurt? What could it hurt, tossing someone with only _dozens_ out for his neck in a locked box, with no witnesses about? Between ambitious inmates who know which palms to grease for a chance to make a name for themselves and vengeful Aurors looking to conduct a bit of vigilante justice, he’ll be dead by Hallowe’en, forget Christmas. Besides—” He sniffed, admiring his carefully filed nails with a detached air. “As I made mention, Mother’s barred from visiting him so long as he’s in Solitary. She’s most unhappy with the present arrangements, so be a lamb and _un_pull whatever strings you tugged upon in your desperate bid to be my knight-errant.”

“I wasn’t—” Harry started, before reminding himself that Malfoy’s needling comments were only meant to distract and should not be taken as legitimate complaints. He pursed his lips into a tight frown. “He doesn’t deserve visitation privileges. You _know_ he doesn’t.”

“Indeed he does not. But that is for neither you nor I to decide, and even if _I_ may think Mother would be better served counting her own blessings than wasting her time and funds on fruitless appeals, she’ll hear none of it.”

Harry—distantly now—recalled Narcissa’s long, slender fingers splayed over his chest, feeling for a heartbeat. He could hear her voice, soft and frightened, risking her life for word her child was safe. “…I suppose she can be like a dog with a bone when it comes to her family.”

“The Loyal and Most Stubborn House of Black. _Toujours fidele_, more like it.”

It certainly fit, Harry could agree, and even now, after all these years, a bitter pang lanced through his chest as Sirius’s handsome smile flashed in Harry’s mind’s eye. He swallowed down the emotion growing thick in his throat, giving a soft cough. “But—perhaps I can work something out with the Ministry. Have him moved somewhere else, out of Azkaban entirely.” It was an impossible ask, he knew, even as he suggested it, but desperation had him reaching for the moon. “It’s practically a death sentence, moving him back to his old cell.”

“And I’m certain Mother will mourn him as suits a well-bred witch of Pureblood stock.” He sighed, closing his eyes. “Forty days of black robes—she’ll look exquisite.” 

“This isn’t a joking matter, Malfoy. This…” He made himself take a breath, steadying his voice—and his thoughts. “This has _consequences_. For your mother, for you.” It wasn’t going to get Malfoy the Kiss in and of itself, but losing his father like he had certainly hadn’t helped matters, of that Harry was confident. One by one, Malfoy had lost his support system—his friends, his family, anyone who gave enough of a shit about him to help keep him from backsliding, until he’d finally slipped and never managed to claw his way back to his feet again.

Malfoy opened his eyes, sliding his gaze to meet Harry’s. “Trust I’m perfectly capable of fucking up my life regardless of whether my father lives or dies. I’m _very_ resourceful, Potter. You ought to know that by now.” He then turned on his heel, marching for the door. “Put him back.”

Harry watched him go, lost. How had he gotten exactly what he’d wanted and still been left feeling like Malfoy’d gotten the better of him? The Loyal and Most Stubborn House of Black, indeed.

He glanced around at the destruction their argument had wrought on the potions lab and sighed, shoulders slumping, as he fished his wand from his pocket and began to put the room back in order. Charms might have to wait; he needed to visit the Owlery.

Oh, Kingsley was going to _hate _him.


	7. Chapter 7

Harry supposed that, on the whole, using up every last ounce of goodwill he had with Kingsley to ensure Malfoy’s dad eventually met the swift and terrible end he was always meant to enjoy balanced out nicely enough with Malfoy finally accepting—albeit grudgingly—Harry’s offer of aid. He therefore decided to pour himself wholly into helping Malfoy avoid his ignominious fate, prioritising sorting out Malfoy’s future over all other distractions. 

Ron and Hermione clearly thought he’d lost his marbles, but while Ron seemed content to just shake his head in bewilderment or, at worst, complain Harry was going to be responsible for the _Troll_ Ron was sure to get on his Transfiguration N.E.W.T. if Harry wasn’t around to let him crib his notes, Hermione was decidedly less easygoing about the matter. She’d stopped moaning about Harry’s meddling with the timeline, at least, but her irritation with Harry for skiving off Ouroboros research had not been tempered. “It’s as if you don’t want to go back at all!” she’d accused sharply one evening, with Harry halfway out the portrait heading for the seventh floor. “It’s not right, Harry! Expecting me to do all this research for you on top of my studies when you’re flitting off to do god-knows-what with Malfoy most every night!”

And _that_ accusation had caused more than a few heads in the Common Room to snap around, suddenly curious. Harry had hastily snapped up a _Muffliato_ and reassured her that of _course _he wanted to go back—N.E.W.T.s were just as imposing the second time around as they’d been the first, and he was _not_ looking forward to taking them again. “But—I mean, you don’t _have_ to be doing all this research _right now_, you know.” Hermione’s expression had been one of befuddled horror, and he’d quickly explained himself: “Just, it’s all relative, right? It doesn’t matter if we figure out how to send me back tomorrow, or three months from now, or a year from now even. Once we hammer out the logistics, it can be as if I never left.”

This had not settled her reservations, though, as it wasn’t a matter of how long it took until Harry returned to the future—it was how long he spent in the past. The more time he spent here, the more changes he made. He might only _mean_ to influence Malfoy’s life, but every minute he was here, living this Harry’s life and interacting with this Harry’s friends and acquaintances, would yield another unintended consequence in the future.

And Harry understood that, he really did, but the only reason he was here at all was because of Malfoy, to help him _fix this_—to help him become a better person not just for his own sake, but for the sake of those around him. Harry included. 

“I _have_ to do this,” he’d said, hoping his tone showed he meant this to be the end of this conversation. He wasn’t returning to his proper time until he’d done what he’d come back for, and he needed his friends—both of them—to understand this was a _have to_ for him.

She must have heard the finality in his voice, for she’d sighed, shoulders sagging, and given him a weak smile. “Yes, I imagine you think you do.”

He hadn’t known what that meant, but he also hadn’t cared. It had been enough she’d let him leave without any further harassment, freeing him to get down to business.

Their row in the unused potions lab had been a decided turning point in their relationship, and while he and Malfoy still kept to their own kind outside the Room—and likely always would—there were definite changes afoot within those stone walls. For one, Malfoy no longer wore that pinch-faced sour look when Harry showed up, graduating to cordial nods of acknowledgement or the occasional half-wave if he was feeling particularly effusive. He’d even stopped Vanishing Harry’s chair, which often manifested as a sofa with a matching ottoman and a chenille of warm gold knitting thrown over the back. This latter addition was sure to be particularly welcome once the days began to grow shorter and the air crisper with the impending arrival of autumn. Harry had walked in once to find Malfoy sprawled out upon it, long and lean, though he’d practically vaulted over the back when Harry had cleared his throat to announce his presence, ducking low and professing himself in the midst of searching for a lost quill. 

But with Malfoy’s permission to interfere more or less secured, Harry was ready to dive into the matter of putting Malfoy’s life back to rights, good and proper, so he wasted no time in plotting out just how to go about it—this time with Malfoy’s cooperation. Perhaps the most pressing matter, he felt, was ensuring Malfoy sat and passed his N.E.W.T.s.

“I’m not sitting any N.E.W.T.s,” Malfoy had said.

And “Oh, yes you are,” Harry had returned. Having a few Os or Es in his back pocket certainly wasn’t going to hurt anything, but a lack of them might paint him as a dunderhead or worthless layabout, if not barring him from career advancement outright. He was sitting those exams, and that was that.

Of course, there was the small matter of Malfoy not being enrolled in any N.E.W.T. classes worth speaking of.

In all the books he’d seen Malfoy poring over during his studies, Harry had noticed that none of them had involved classes that required wands. This, along with the fact Malfoy had nearly beat Harry silly with his bare fists only days earlier and relied upon the Room for the bulk of his Summoning and Vanishing needs, suggested he was less than satisfied with the quality of his new, Ministry-approved wand.

As Malfoy put it when Harry had confronted him about this: “It’s fucking useless.”

He’d let Harry have a go with it, just to see for himself, and after brushing aside the niggling thought that this was the second time he’d laid hands on a wand belonging to Draco Malfoy, Harry had attempted a few rudimentary spells, to less-than-stellar results. 

His _Lumos_ was lackluster, his _Accio_ appalling, and his _Expelliarmus_ egregious. It was, Harry had to agree, absolutely positively fucking useless. Trying to use the thing for any N.E.W.T.-level coursework would be an exercise in futility.

He therefore renewed his efforts to convince Malfoy to take back his proper wand. The Room was Unplottable, after all, so the Ministry couldn’t well punish him for what they didn’t know he was doing. “It’s yours, like I said, and you’re entitled to it, as I see it. Besides, you can’t even defend yourself properly with that twig they gave you! What’re you meant to do if someone tries something with you?”

“Get what’s coming to me, I imagine,” Malfoy had said, wrinkling his nose as he ran a finger over the velvet-lined box in which his wand had been stored. Harry had thought he might actually have gotten rid of it, after that first row, but Malfoy had only put it away, locked in a drawer of one of the several handsome writing desks he’d had the Room Conjure for his use. Even in his anger and irritation, he hadn’t been able to bring himself to destroy the last remaining bit of his old life.

Well, there was no going back to that old life—at least not without finding another Mathilda—so they would have to work with what remained now. As Harry knew what it felt like, not being able to properly defend yourself with a wand you knew and trusted, he decided to prioritise helping Malfoy not only brush up on the coursework he’d need for his N.E.W.T.s but also master the basic charms and jinxes he’d taught his friends oh those many years back. They were old hat to him by now, but a part of him had missed wandering around this very Room, correcting forms and adjusting wand grips, seeing his ‘students’ progress before his very eyes. No, he wasn’t torn up at all to have a new protege on whom to foist the wealth of his Defence knowledge.

Malfoy, though, being the prideful arsekettle he was, refused to let Harry do all the ‘helping’, and in exchange for lessons in Defence and other N.E.W.T. classes relying on wandwork, Harry had to agree to receive tutoring of his own from Malfoy in, well, most every non-wand-wielding class he was taking. Granted, it was not so terribly difficult a concession to make; it soothed Malfoy’s bruised ego to feel like this was a give-and-take relationship, and admittedly, Harry found he could use the refresher. Hermione had been so engrossed in Ouroboros research and her own studies of late, she hadn’t had as much time to spare for helping Harry and Ron with their work, which he hoped would not adversely affect Ron’s own future endeavours. He tried to recall how many N.E.W.T.s Ron had managed but failed—though perhaps it wouldn’t matter. Kingsley had waived the testing requirements for Auror recruits who’d fought in the war, and then Ron had gone on to run the Wheezes empire with George, so N.E.W.T.s were not so very important for him.

The terms of their exchange sorted, Malfoy’s attitude improved immensely from ‘gloomy stubborn twat’ to ‘spirited insufferable prat’. He allowed himself to bask once more in the joys of taking the piss out of Harry at every given opportunity, and no topic was safe: Harry’s fashion (or lack thereof), Harry’s culture (or lack thereof), Harry’s education (or lack thereof). 

This last one was a particular favourite of Malfoy’s, and it was almost like suffering through remedial Potions with Snape: “A seven-year head start,” Malfoy tutted, “and you’re _still _brewing at a second-year level? Merlin and Morgana, Potter, _you’re_ the one who needs saving.” 

Harry Vanished the remains of the lovely pewter cauldron the Room had supplied them, now melted into an unrecognisable ingot of metal coated in the burnt dregs of the Wiggenweld Potion he’d been working on for the past half-hour. This was, he supposed, what happened when he tried to coach Malfoy through the casting of a _Protego totalum_ while simultaneously monitoring the final stages of a brew: neither turned out the way it was meant to.

“Well—just, I’m an _Auror_,” Harry reminded hotly, embarrassment pinking his cheeks and ears. “We have Potions Analysts and whatnot for this sort of dry benchwork.” He wasn’t even entirely sure _why_ he was retaking his Potions N.E.W.T.—he hadn’t needed it to apply to the Aurors, and he couldn’t think of a single instance in five-plus years on the force in which he’d actually _needed_ any concoction he couldn’t just as easily purchase from Slug and Jiggers. 

Malfoy was unmoved by Harry’s protestations, though, abandoning his Shield Charm practise and sinking into a freshly Conjured armchair with as smugly superior a look as he’d ever worn. “Now, now, Potter—no need to fret so. I’m only teasing.” He drew figures in the air with his wand, ghostly apparitions of koi fish springing from the tip to swim lazily overhead for his amusement. Harry wondered idly what form his Patronus took. “After all, Gryffindors can’t be blamed for blossoming into lugheaded, numbskull brutes who adopt a fist-first approach to every problem any more than one can fault a Kneazle for shitting in your best house-slippers. It’s simply in their nature.” 

Harry was about ready to show him just how fist-first his approach to problems _really_ was. “Well what excuse have _you_ got for your shitty Charm-work? Too busy brushing up on your Unforgivables to bother?”

Malfoy Vanished the fish with a swipe of his wand, a hard set to his jaw as he fixed Harry with a pointed look. “So what if I was?” And Harry didn’t have a witty rejoinder there. Malfoy sniffed, pushing himself up from the chair and Vanishing it as well, as he began to pace the Room with an irritable energy. “You’ve rather a lot of nerve, you know.”

Harry winced. “…Yeah, I know.”

“Barging in here, banging on about _Oh Malfoy, you’re too young and beautiful to die_ and _Oh Malfoy, life’s just not worth living without you around making it hellish—_”

Harry frowned. “I don’t…think that’s _quite_ how I put it—”

“—When _you’re_ swanning around wizarding London in what I must assume are those ghastly scarlet Auror robes that do nothing for your complexion in the very line of work you selected at _twelve_—”

“Was fifteen…” Were they really having this argument again? And Ginny had assured him he looked dashing in his uniform!

“Good gad, was it? Then you’ve no excuse at all, have you? You ought to have had a bit more imagination by then.”

“Well—” Harry started, shame flaring, “I’m not here to change _my_ future. I’m here to change _yours_.”

“What a waste,” Malfoy scoffed. “There’s no rule saying you can’t do _both_, is there? I mean, just think of all the impressionable young Gryffindors who come after you, convinced they’ve no choice but to go into _public service_.” He gave an exaggerated shudder. “Don’t you want to set a good example? Show them they can dream a little bigger?”

“Fine,” Harry said, pasting on a thin smile. “We’ll find me a new line of work—just as soon as we’ve found one for you.”

Malfoy’s lip curled. “I don’t believe you.”

“And that hurts, Malfoy, it really does.” Harry laid a hand on his chest, pulling the most pained expression he could manage, then rolled his eyes and lifted his wand to the ready. “Now since you evidently feel you’ve had enough practise with your Shield Charm, how about a test? The proctor only tested the charm’s strength against an _Impedimenta_ for the Defence O.W.L., but I’m pretty sure it was something with a bit more punch for my N.E.W.T.—let’s try a Blasting Curse.” 

“Wha—let’s _not_!” Malfoy squawked, stumbling backwards and grabbing the nearest bit of furniture at hand—a decorative three-legged side table—to brandish in Harry’s direction. 

Harry let his wand drop back to his side, shoulders slumped as he sighed. “You’re not even _trying_ with these lessons, Malfoy. If you think the difficulty’s beyond you—”

“It most certainly is _not_.”

“Well then _what_?” Harry held his arms out. “I may not be a professor, but I _have_ taught others these spells before. I know what I’m doing, and I know you’ve got the skill to manage them—so if you’re not nailing this magic, I’m inclined to believe it’s because you don’t _want_ to.”

Malfoy’s cheeks went pink, and his jaw stiffened. “How fucking _dare_ you?”

“Because I’ve got a lot of nerve, remember?” He shook his head, shuffling over to the hideous lime-green divan. Of all the furniture that popped into and out of existence in the room, this was one of the few that always seemed to stick around, and Harry had to wonder if it didn’t hold some sort of sentimental value for Malfoy. Perhaps Harry would find a similar one locked away in the Ministry’s vaults, confiscated from the Manor as war reparations. He hadn’t noticed it the once he’d ‘visited’, but he’d also been half-blind from a Stinging Jinx at the time. He flopped down onto the springy cushions, throwing one leg over the other. “So what is it, then? _Are_ the spells actually beyond you? Be honest. Because if you need me to take things more slowly—”

“Of course I don’t!” Malfoy huffed, his ears going pink as well now, and he tucked his wand into his sleeve so he could cross his arms. “Don’t be stupid.”

Harry raised his hands in defence. “All right, fine. Then what’s the issue? Have you changed your mind about my helping?”

Malfoy blew air from his nose in a long, slow stream, pinch lipped and sour. “…I simply don’t see the _point_.”

“Don’t see the _point_—?”

“I don’t see how even the finest of N.E.W.T. results is going to magically set my life to rights and restore some semblance of dignity to me.” He took a steadying breath. “I’m…sure you_ mean_ well—you’ve always been an insufferable do-gooder—but I can’t imagine this will be at all effective in staving off my untimely demise.”

Harry boggled. “Well of course it’s going to ‘stave off your untimely demise’! The very fact you don’t want it to happen at all’s got to be worth something, for one, and every change you make to your life—every change for the _better_, including getting those fine N.E.W.T. results—is going to put you further and further from Azkaban.”

“Is it? Did I just walk into the cell and lock myself up because I liked the decor? Or was I caught up in machinations not of my own making? I seem to recall some mention of _under duress_ and _Neo-Death Eaters_. I’ll accept I’ve got to bear the bulk of the responsibility for my actions, but are you telling me there were _no_ events outside of my control that might have sent me slipping down the slope to the Kissing Chamber?”

And he had something of a point. Harry swallowed. “…Well we aren’t going to let it come to that.”

“Oh, we aren’t, are we?”

“No. Because you’re going to be untouchable.”

“Untouchable?” Malfoy frowned, though there was a little twitch to his brow that betrayed his curiosity, and Harry leapt on it.

“They only tapped you before because you were an easy mark. You were desperate, you were unwanted, they could play you—pressure you—and they did. You had more to lose not giving in to them than to gain. All we have to do is get you set up to where you’re useless to them, where they’d risk too much going after you as a patsy to handle their dirty work. That’s all you ever were to them, you know. Cannon fodder.”

Malfoy made a face. “If you think making me feel _common_’s going to win you any points in my book…”

Harry found he could give two shits about winning points. “It’s not just about earning good marks or how many N.E.W.T.s you get, it’s about goals, and achievement. It’s about making you feel like you’re worth something. To _yourself_.”

“I _am_ worth something,” Malfoy said, though he seemed shocked at his own words, and for once, he hadn’t sounded boastful in the least. 

Harry nodded; a bit of self-affirmation never hurt anyone. “Yeah. You are. Or else I wouldn’t be here, would I?” He lifted his brows, and Malfoy gave a grudging _hm_. “So you’re gonna take your N.E.W.T.s—I’ll help you with Defence and Charms; you’ve already got Potions handled yourself, and between the two of us we can probably manage Transfiguration prep. Herbology…” He frowned; it wasn’t a favourite of his, and he didn’t think Malfoy was taking it either. “Er, maybe we could get Neville to put together a study guide for Herbology?”

Malfoy gave an exaggerated shiver, shaking his head. “If not having a Herbology N.E.W.T. is what gets me Kissed, then I’m just going to accept my fate, Potter. End of discussion.”

It wasn’t the end of the discussion, as far as Harry was concerned, but he understood he needed to pick his battles with Malfoy, and this was one that could be rejoined later. “Fine. Forget schoolwork for a bit. Do you have any…” He made a vague gesture with his hands. “I dunno, ideas? About what you’d like to do with your life now?”

Malfoy arched one lacy white brow, reclining back against a handsome ebony escritoire that had materialised just in time to accept his weight. He seemed to have a _thing_ for fine office furniture, Harry was beginning to note. “What I’d _like_ to do? Or what I _can_ do?”

Harry supposed he had a point: there was a difference, especially for someone in Malfoy’s shoes. “Like, then.” If he was going to stand there and accuse Harry of thinking small, he ought to be prepared to demonstrate a bit of grandiose fantasising of his own. “If you could do anything your shrivelled little black Slytherin heart desired, what would it be?”

The moment he spoke, he knew he ought to have rephrased himself, for Malfoy got a nasty glint in his eye and donned a curling grin. “Mm, something involving a white-sand beach with grains like powder, a bed of rose petals under a breezy cabana—I burn easily, you know—and some exquisite someone or other whose name I’d struggle to recall holding a coconut drink for me to sip upon. Clothing optional.”

Harry’s eyes nearly rolled out of his head, and he rubbed tiredly at his temples. “Fine; what you _can_ do.”

Malfoy shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

Harry made an irritated sound in the back of his throat, silently reminding himself this was what Malfoy _did_ when he felt threatened: tried to be as difficult as possible, so people just gave up and left him alone. He’d done it in Azkaban, keeping Harry at arm’s length with his sharp tongue, and he was attempting to do so again here. 

Well, if Malfoy wasn’t going to make suggestions, then Harry would.

He tapped his chin. “…You know, they _are_ relaxing the enlistment criteria for new Auror recruits—”

“_Ab_solutely not!” Malfoy shrieked, aghast.

“Come on! Sure, you have…er, a dodgy record, and you may not think highly of the DMLE, but I know they’re desperate for recruits after the war—they let _Nigel Wolpert_ into training, even! And if you’re not familiar with good ol’ Nigel, well he’s about yea high—” Harry held a hand just at his kneecap. “—And has all the stoic gravitas of a drowned cat. So you’d be a stand-out as far as they’re concerned.” Plus, he was pretty sure Robards would take to Malfoy, once the matter of his war-time actions was put to bed—and Harry’d help out with that. Robards liked people who gave back as much shit as they took. Or at least, Harry was pretty sure he did. It was the only explanation for why Harry still had his badge. On closer consideration, perhaps he only liked Harry because he (usually) closed cases. Or perhaps Harry’s ongoing employment was merely a personal favour to the Minister. Fuck, that actually sounded plausible. 

God, was he actually _bad_ at his job?

No. No, that was a crisis to be dealt with at a later point. “Just _think_ about it, will you? Maybe they’d even make us partners; Ron and I were a team for the first few months after graduating from training, but he dropped out to help George run the shop, and it wasn’t half as fun after that. You can’t say it’d be dull, at least.”

Malfoy was still gaping at him like he’d grown a second head, and it took another beat before he seemed to recall himself, lip curling derisively as he raked Harry with a scathing look. “…I’m not sure if I’m more astounded you think I’d want _anything_ to do with the very brutes who’ve made a mockery of my family and its estate in the wake of the war, as if we haven’t suffered enough, or that you’d think the two of _us_ pairing up would be anything but an unmitigated disaster.” He frowned in concern, straightening. “Are you concussed? You sound concussed. Are you certain that Cushioning Charm was properly cast?”

“_Yes_ I’m certain the Cushioning Charm was properly cast,” Harry groused, though he was still going to have a bruise on his cheek from the tumble he’d taken after Malfoy’s Knockback Jinx had caught him during their earlier Defence practise session. He’d need to keep his wits about him in the future, even though Malfoy was but an amateur. “And it’s a career track with a steady income, benefits for security, and a chance to give something _back_ to a community you, let’s face it, played no small part in trying to bring down.” Malfoy’s face got that nasty pinched look it always did when Harry’d said something he didn’t want to admit was true. “And as for the second bit, well…I mean, we’ve managed all right in here, haven’t we? Nothing more serious than a few bruises and scrapes that neither of us meant to inflict—that’s promising, isn’t it? I’ve been training you up a bit now; a little more shine on you, and I reckon you’ll be on par with most any other greenhorn. With my experience, I could probably pull your weight—‘til you found your bearings, at least.”

And now Malfoy was looking at him…_funny_. Like he was trying to pick him apart, a little confused, a little curious, a little frightened even. “…You’re serious.”

“Er…” Harry gave a dry, huffing little nervous chuckle. Perhaps they weren’t on the same page in this conversation. “Should I not be?”

“No,” Malfoy said, matter-of-factly. “You shouldn’t. Not about this. It’s _ridiculous_. I’m not going to be an _Auror_—”

“You could be! I told you, they’re relaxing the criteria that have to be met by anyone looking to apply to the recruitment program—”

Malfoy scoffed. “That means they’re letting in the brainless fools who decided they’d rather risk their necks taking on werewolves and giants and crazed convicted murderers than sit their N.E.W.T.s—they aren’t inviting _Death Eaters_.”

Harry bit back the urge to remind Malfoy that several of those ‘brainless fools’ had been his closest friends, nearly family, and it was their brave sacrifices that had given Harry the nudge necessary to help him carry out his final task. “You aren’t a Death Eater,” he said instead, because sometimes it sounded like Malfoy forgot. “Not anymore.”

“No?” The lilt in his tone was accusing. “Even if I had half a mind to throw my hat into that cretinous ring—and I don’t, let’s make _that_ clear; I don’t even have a _smidgen_ of a mind—Shacklebolt and his ilk would take one look at _this_—” He yanked his sleeve up to his elbow, baring his Dark Mark in threat. “—And toss me into the Thames. They’d never tolerate someone like _me_ among their ranks.”

“Kingsley’s not like that—he can be talked around. He’s one of the good ones, whatever you might think.”

“However ‘good’ you may believe him to be, I can’t imagine he’s going to just bend over backwards to do any more favours for you, Saviour or no. And this would be a _favour_, of the highest order, because let me tell you from experience: _no one_ likes the person who had to buy his way onto a team. No matter how fine the brooms his father donated might be.”

“It’s not _buying _your way on—”

“It _is_,” Malfoy said, insistent. “And Shacklebolt, if he’s half the Minister for Magic you talk him up to be, will prioritise the smooth running of his Department of Magical Law Enforcement and force morale over the Crup-eyed requests of the Boy Who Lived. So don’t waste your political capital on this battle. I can assure you I’m not worth it.”

And that was rich, coming from someone who’d _just_ boasted he was worth ‘something’. Still: “It’s not about _worth_,” Harry huffed, beyond tired of Malfoy’s dour attitude. Would he never dig deep enough to unearth the conceited prig who’d stalked the Hogwarts corridors like he owned them? “It’s about—about doing something _worthwhile_. About making something of yourself. Look—” He shifted forward on the cushions, elbows settled on his knees. “You want to restore your image, yeah? Want people to respect your name again? Respect _you_?” He nodded to Malfoy’s left arm. “Be able to look beyond _that_? Then this is how you do it: by putting yourself out there, demanding to be taken seriously, in a grand gesture. You don’t duck your head and slink into the shadows and let people form their own opinions about them. _You_ drive the conversation. _You_ tell them who you are.”

He was playing to Malfoy’s pride, trying to tease it out, but Malfoy was keen to his games by now and gave a practised sneer. “Indeed. Make a ‘grand gesture’, that’s all there is to it. And it would hurt nothing that this gesture would be made at the side of the _Saviour_, right? As your partner, wasn’t it?” He began to tick items off on his fingers. “First you plan to use your leverage to put me on the force over what would be more than understandable objections, then you say you’ll compensate for what are sure to be my sub-par skills in Defence by covering for me, and finally you’ll lean on your blinding brilliance and the public’s adoration to distract from the dark clouds surrounding me. I _told you_: I’m not going to be your project, Potter.”

And now Harry understood Malfoy’s urge to Conjure furniture just to destroy it. “It’s not making a _project_ out of you! I’m offering you help! Like you said you’d accept!”

“I said no such thing. I said you were welcome to meddle all you liked. I never suggested I’d let you live my life for me.”

Harry only _just_ held back from spitting _At least then you’d have a life to live_. He made himself count to five in his head—ten might have been better, but that was asking too much of Harry and his temper just now. “I’m not trying to do that. I’m only showing you that you have _options_. More than you might have thought—because I’m willing to go to bat for you. I don’t give a shit about ‘political capital’. I give a shit about _this_. If you don’t want my help _this way_, then fine, all right. But don’t just shoot down my offers out of spite. You’re smarter than that; try showing it.”

Malfoy seemed to consider his words for a beat—perhaps he was counting to five as well—then shrugged. “I wasn’t doing it out of spite. I was doing it because I’m not joining the fucking Aurors.”

Harry shook his head, less in frustration and more in grudging amusement. “You really think we’re so bad?”

“One of you _turned me into a ferret_. I had to see a _Mind Healer_ after that.”

“Hey now, that wasn’t on us—that was a Death Eater who’d spent the better part of the school year Polyjuiced as Mad Eye. He was one of _your_ chums.” He settled back against the cushions, crossing his arms. “And you know, if you’re so very disgusted with the program, there are few better ways to improve it than from the inside.”

Malfoy cocked his head in thought. “Or from over their heads…”

Harry frowned. “You mean through legislation? Politics?”

“Well I’m a sight better at manipulating people into getting my way than duelling, I’m not ashamed to admit.”

“You’re not—” Harry protested. “Well, you’re not a _bad_ dueller…” They’d been fairly evenly matched back in school—when Malfoy hadn’t cheated—and they might still be had Harry not had seven years’ more experience in combat spellwork.

“No, I’m not,” Malfoy agreed seamlessly, getting back a little of that familiar snootiness. “I’m only that much _better_ at bending people to my will.”

“Couldn’t get _me_ to leave you alone,” Harry said, brows wiggling just a bit in challenge.

“I said ‘people’; not time-hopping middle-aged lunatics who don’t have the good sense to wear gloves when handling dangerous magical creatures. _Honestly_. It’s no _wonder_ you get along so well with that oaf Hagrid.” 

Harry didn’t know where to start, sputtering, “I’m not _middle-aged_—and I wasn’t _handling_—and don’t call Hagrid an ‘oaf’!” His head gave an aching throb, and he released a long slow breath, taking another five-count as he waited for his clenched fists to relax. It was two steps forward and then a twenty-minute detour with Malfoy sometimes, and Harry really needed to remember he had to be the adult in this relationship, as Malfoy seemed more than content to act the teenager he was.   
“…Forget it. Fine, you want to go into politics, then?”

Malfoy shrugged. “Not particularly.”

“Wh—then why the hell did you _suggest_ it?”

“I was making conversation. Do you really think that if the Ministry’s not going to let me into their guard dog kennels without your _graciously_ offered influence, they’ll let me anywhere near a position of _real_ power? I realise you’ve cheated death twice, Potter, but I’m certain there must be limits to even _your _abilities.”

“There are elected positions,” Harry reminded, recalling Hermione’s upcoming campaign.

“And those are even _further_ out of reach; no one’s going to cast a ballot for a _Malfoy_.”

“You could change your name.” Honestly, it was a good idea even if Malfoy _didn’t_ decide to pursue a political career; he’d certainly get farther as Draco Jenkins or Draco Smythe than saddled with anything that sounded like it’d been passed down forty-seven generations.

At the suggestion, though, Malfoy got a dark, threatening look to him that sent a jolt through Harry. “I’m going to _die_ with this name, one way or another. Let’s get that straight.”

Harry held his hands up in defence. “All right there, easy. No need to get pissy. Was just a thought.” He sighed, wracking his brain for other viable options for Malfoy’s career prospects. “Fine, then what about other posts at the Ministry? You don’t like the Aurors—or the DMLE as a whole, I’m going to hazard a guess—and you’re not wrong that fitting you into any position above an Executive Officer is probably going to get hairy, but there’s lots of other equally valuable Departments at the Ministry where I’m sure you could find rewarding, honest work.”

Malfoy was giving him a strange look—a bit disgusted, a bit horrified, if Harry had to describe it. “…Merlin, if there were any doubts in my mind you were a government-employed hack approaching thirty, that spiel just dispelled them.”

“Piss off. I’m serious. Listen—” He shifted forward again, wringing his hands as he locked eyes with Malfoy. “I know you’ve got your pride. And I know this entire situation galls you fiercely, not least of all because it’s _me_ here, telling you all this. I know that, given your druthers, you’d be doing this on your own, and doing it damn well. And maybe just _knowing _how things go wrong is enough to help you ensure the future I’m from never comes to pass. But I don’t expect you want to stake your life, quite literally, on anything less than a sure thing. And I’m a _sure thing_. You don’t have a high opinion of the Ministry, I get that, but that’s really about the only place I’ve got any pull, so you ought to take advantage of it. Harness that Slytherin ambition to capitalise on any foothold you can find and _use it_.”

Malfoy’s lips twisted, and his sharp grey eyes skittered up and down Harry with what looked to be bordering on appreciation. “The Boy Who Lived likes to be used—now _there_’s a tasty new morsel to sell to Skeeter…”

“Malfoy…” Harry warned, because he needed this childish pissing about to stop. Harry had a job to do, and he meant to do it.

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “It’s bad enough I’m letting you tutor me like I’m earning failing marks because I’m thick and haven’t simply been bureaucratically shut out of an education; I don’t need the spectre of ‘made his way into his position on Harry Potter’s coattails’ haunting me for the rest of my days.”

Harry wanted to pull his hair out. “You’re going to have to accept you’ll need _someone_ to vouch for you—”

“I’ll accept no such thing. You want to teach me a few nasty Jinxes, I’m all ears; but I’m through incurring debts. It’s only another way for people to hold power over you. Besides, if I’m going to have to bend my head and earn a paycheque like a common labourer, it certainly won’t be to lick some Ministry knob’s boots.”

God, Harry had nearly forgotten how _dramatic_ Malfoy could be—but then his words sparked a thought. “Right, you don’t want to answer to anyone at the Ministry? Or take advantage of my influence? Then how about the Unspeakables?”

Malfoy squinted. “…Aren’t they Ministry employees?”

“Technically, yes—but the Department of Mysteries has rather a lot of independence. It doesn’t answer to the DMLE for one, and even the Minister for Magic lacks the authority to interfere in its running.”

“Which means you can’t get them to consider me for a position.”

“Er, no, probably not—which might be for the best. My friends and I kind of…wrecked a lot of stuff in some of their labs back in Fifth Year, and I think they’re still pissed off with me for it…” F’s strident lecturing rang in his ears; yeah, they weren’t best pleased with Harry Potter down on Level Nine. “Though it’s mostly research, from what I understand—in fields so esoteric only an utter swot could really ever be satisfied there, I expect.” He frowned to himself; he didn’t really know where Malfoy’s interests lay beyond Potioneering, so perhaps this had been an unwelcome suggestion to begin with.

“I’m surprised Granger’s not one, in that case.” Harry ignored the thinly veiled insult, as Malfoy actually seemed to be mulling the thought over. He tried to picture Malfoy in the Unspeakables’ formless robes with his facial features Charmed beyond recognition. One thing was for certain: Unspeakable M wouldn’t have been any more a treat to partner with than Unspeakable F had been. “Research, you say? In what fields?”

“Uh…” Harry squinted in thought, trying to recall his brief visit. “I’m not sure of _everything_ they study, but I know they’ve got dedicated rooms for studying life and death, and love. Thought. The soul. Space and time—”

“Time?” Malfoy narrowed his gaze suspiciously. “Why haven’t you consulted with the Unspeakables to get yourself sorted, in that case? I know you’ve made a habit of relying upon Granger to get you out of jams in the past, but surely _they’ll_ be more familiar with this beast you got bitten by than any Hogwarts student might.”

“Er, yeah, probably…” Harry allowed, shifting uncomfortably. He was reminded now of Hermione’s pinch-faced pleas for Harry to leave off nosing about in Malfoy’s business and focus more on getting himself back to his proper time. “I do mean to—we’ve hit something of a roadblock in our research, so it’ll probably come to that.”

Malfoy lifted a brow. “…_But_…?”

“…Well I’ve kind of got some business to attend to first, haven’t I? Or else this whole ‘trip’ will have been a wash.”

His meaning seemed to dawn on Malfoy, the tension across his shoulders easing as he said, “…Oh.”

An awkward beat passed, and Harry regretted having explained himself at all. Now it felt like he was putting undue pressure on Malfoy to make this ‘worth it’, which would do nothing to help his already shaky self-esteem. He was never going to get back to the pompous, arsey git he’d been before at this rate—and to his great surprise, Harry _wanted_ that git back. 

He _was _a project—but not in the way Malfoy thought. Harry had had seven whole years to grow out of hating Malfoy—if he’d ever _really_ hated him to begin with. He definitely recalled wanting to throttle him on a few occasions, and he hadn’t cast _Sectumsempra_ on a lark, but it hadn’t been hate. Hate had been reserved for the people who’d taken things from him: Voldemort, Lestrange, even Snape still on some days, and Dumbledore once in a blue moon too. Malfoy had been a chore, a small-minded prick who’d lived his whole life in a tiny pond and thought that made him big instead of just trapped. 

So no, he didn’t hate Malfoy, and while he still had a hair-trigger temper when pushed—and Malfoy knew _just_ how and where and when to push—it was easier now to see that it had largely been ego and stubbornness that’d had them at odds in the first place. Seven years wasn’t much, in the grand scheme of things, but it was seven years more time he’d had to learn to tame those poor qualities, work around them, master them. Malfoy was still finding his feet, so Harry could try and practise a bit of patience. 

He wanted to make this work—was _going_ to make it work—but he was fine doing it on Malfoy’s terms, so long as the outcome was acceptable. If it resulted in Malfoy living to a ripe old age, deservedly, then what difference did it make how they got there? Be it through the Auror ranks or behind an Unspeakable’s Glamour or even performing janitorial duties at St. Mungo’s, if that was what Malfoy set his heart on—Harry would help where he could. 

He nodded. “…Fine. All right. You don’t want to work in the Ministry, then you won’t work in the Ministry. We’ll just find something else for you.”

Malfoy gave him a long, wry look, hopping up onto the desk and crossing his legs at the ankle. “You _do_ realise this might all be for nought, right?” He waved a hand around the room. “Perhaps this is an entirely different timeline from the one you hail. Maybe here, I’m meant to die in a different fashion altogether, no Azkaban or Dementors in sight. Perhaps I never even make it out of school. Maybe I slip and fall down one of the moving staircases and crack my skull open upon the flagstones this very night.” He lifted his brows, darkly amused. “And then won’t _you_ feel foolish?”

Harry watched him, the way he pointed and relaxed his toes, bouncing his legs absently. Were that to happen, Harry knew he’d feel a lot of things—and _foolish_ wouldn’t really be one of them. “Yeah, maybe,” he allowed. “But it’ll still have been worth it.”

“Hm,” was all Malfoy said.

They returned to their studies for the remainder of the evening, working up to just minutes before curfew would be called because Harry had been bound and determined to see Malfoy master a _Protego duo_, even if Harry’s next attempt at successfully brewing a Wiggenweld Potion would have to wait for another evening.

The lamps soon flashed in warning that curfew was imminent, though, so they packed away their belongings and made for the door. Malfoy was adjusting the strap of his schoolbag at his shoulder when Harry cleared his throat softly: “Er…good job, today. Your Charms work’s coming along nicely.”

“Of course it is, now I’m not using Baby’s First Wand.” Malfoy gave him a crooked half-smile. “Your Potions work is still shit.”

“Maybe I’ve just got a shitty tutor.”

“Maybe. You ought to sack him.”

“Oh, I could never. I have a thing for hopeless charity cases, you see.” It spoke to how far they’d come in but a handful of weeks interacting that Malfoy didn’t take this as a cruel, mean-spirited jab—though he still elbowed Harry sharply in the ribs for it, which made Harry feel strange. It was the sort of thing you did when your best mate was talking out of his arse just to rile you up for a bit of fun. He and Ron had done it almost on the daily, once upon a time. It was odd, to be doing it with Malfoy now.

“Hasn’t the poor fellow suffered enough?” Malfoy gave him a half-wave. “Evening, Potter.”

“Evening, Malfoy. Hey—” Malfoy stopped, angling his body just enough to catch Harry out of the corner of his eye, a brow lifted in question. “Just, er…watch your step, maybe. You know.” Harry nodded toward the far end of the hall, and the stairwell beyond. “On your way back down to the Dungeons.” Malfoy turned to face him full, giving him a funny look. “…I only don’t want to feel foolish, of course.”

Malfoy raked him from top to bottom in judging amusement before snorting softly, “Too late, Potter,” and continuing on down the corridor with long, swift strides.


	8. Chapter 8

After their stumbling start, the days spent in the Room together building one another’s confidence and skills in concert dragged on into weeks, and the lazy, sticky notes of summer took on a crisp bite in the evenings, heralding the coming Scottish winter that Harry had somehow both sorely missed and been glad to see the back of. 

By this point, Harry was spending as much time _inside_ the Room as out of it, and every pinched frown and furrowed brow Hermione threw his way sent another guilty jolt through his chest. He knew he was neglecting both his studies—the off-the-books ones, at least—as well as his friends, but he couldn’t exactly invite Malfoy into the Gryffindor Common Room for a post-prandial cuppa and a game of wizarding chess. Well, he _could_, but Malfoy would probably decline the invitation with as much huffing and sneering as he’d displayed when he’d turned down the prospect of joining the Aurors.

Harry knew this was how Malfoy would react because, over the month-and-change now they’d spent training in the Room of Requirement together, Harry had gotten pretty good at reading and navigating Malfoy’s moods. So much so that now, they could go days at a time without one or both of them storming off in a snit. He was even pretty sure that Malfoy too was tempering his words and mannerisms, training himself to avoid being quite as insufferable as Harry knew him to be capable. 

In fact, Harry’d had to adjust his earlier consideration that he and Malfoy being on cordial terms was at all ‘odd’. Quite the contrary, it was easy as pie—almost too easy at times, even. They would hit on a rhythm, something effortlessly slipped into and not easily escaped, until they were rolling through a lesson or halfway cracking jokes at safe targets with disconcerting ease, neither one realising they weren’t being horrible to each other until full hours had passed.

And it was in those moments that Harry thought they might be something kind of sort of approaching friends. Well, acquaintances maybe. Malfoy was no Ron—nor was he Neville, or Seamus or Dean. He wasn’t even Justin Finch-Fletchley or Zacharias Smith. Malfoy had fought in the war, but not at Harry’s side. Not even _on_ Harry’s side. And that left a gap between them that a few conversations commiserating over the workload McGonagall had set them this term and one deftly managed Bat-Bogey Hex that Ginny would have approved of could not so easily bridge.

Harry knew this camaraderie he was starting to feel with Malfoy wasn’t real—at least not outside the Room—but…it was still camaraderie, of a sort, and maybe they hadn’t fought on the same side in the war, but they _had_ fought, and for similar (if not the same) virtues. So Harry let himself privately indulge in the excitement of finally, for the first time in _ages_, having made a new friend.

He hadn’t had one in he couldn’t remember how long—everyone of eligible age was either already a friend, or already a fan, and there was to be no mixing of the two in Harry’s book. He had friends of friends—Hermione’s coworkers and a few of the younger Diagon shop owners Ron had standing drinking dates with—but none really he could call his own since leaving Hogwarts. 

There was a kind of dangerous thrill that came along with letting someone new close enough they could hurt you, if they wanted, and no one would ever accuse Harry Potter of not seeking a few thrills. It was like training a wild beast to eat out of your hand, knowing it could rip your arm off but was content to nibble on an apple core instead. Malfoy would probably not appreciate the comparison, but as it was all happening in Harry’s mind, he had no say in whether or not Harry sometimes looked at him and thought _Hippogriff—a dragon’s just too cliched._

Kreacher would bring them meals sometimes, if they practised through lunch break or missed the dinner rush, which was nice both for its convenience and because Harry had _really_ missed Kreacher’s cooking since ceding both him and Grimmauld Place over to Andromeda and Teddy years back. Kreacher, for his part, was just as Harry remembered him and seemed pleased as punch to be once more serving meals not only to ‘the wizard who avenged dear Master Regulus’s brave sacrifice’ but also to the ‘last remaining Black heir’, even though Harry itched to remind Kreacher that _he_ technically was the Black heir, as Grimmauld Place and all its contents had been left to him. House-elves as old as Kreacher were set in their ways, and no amount of explaining the finer points of wizarding contract law would convince him otherwise.

Harry tried not to miss too many meals stuck in the Room, though; people talked enough about how Harry never seemed to be about anymore, and he didn’t want unseemly rumours about his conspicuous absences following him back to the future.

Malfoy, though, was another story altogether.

He didn’t seem to like leaving the Room except to attend classes and meals, and Harry began to wonder if he maybe even still slept in the Room some nights. He’d dismissed the idea the Room was an Eighth Year dorm after his first visit, but that didn’t mean Malfoy didn’t sometimes purposefully miss curfew after Harry left to return to Gryffindor Tower. The urge to peek at the Map and see for himself was there, a niggling little thought, but he told himself it would be rude to violate Malfoy’s privacy that way and that he was past spying on Malfoy, especially as Harry well knew he wasn’t ‘up to’ anything this year. 

It did get a little _boring_, though, the both of them cooped up in the room with nothing but their studies to occupy them. Malfoy soaked up Jinxes and Hexes like a sponge, though his Charms work was slower going, and Harry had actually managed to avoid reducing any cauldrons to molten heaps of metal for a solid two weeks now, a new record. Harry was used to a fair bit of action and danger, though Malfoy seemed perfectly content to enjoy a nice, quiet Eighth Year free of the dour spectre of madmen with Machiavellian tendencies and their murderous hordes.

They had, at least, managed to get the Room to supply a passable Quidditch pitch—an experimental product of one frustrating evening when neither wandwork nor benchwork had quite been cooperating. They’d even managed a pair of nondescript brooms, complete with the requisite Flying and Levitation Charms embedded. They were certainly no Firebolts or Nimbuses, but this way Harry and Malfoy were evenly matched. When it came to equipment, at least. As for talent…well, Harry wasn’t getting his arse handed to him, but he’d had to remind Malfoy on _several_ occasions that he was nearly seven years out of practise now, unless you counted the odd Weasley family Quidditch game at the holidays, so his reflexes weren’t quite what they’d once been. 

“All I hear are _excuses_, Potter,” Malfoy had scoffed, the flush of victory high in his cheeks and broom slung over one shoulder as he waved the freshly caught Snitch under Harry’s nose. “Perhaps once you’ve managed _Troll_-level or better in your Potions N.E.W.T. preparations, I’ll give you a few pointers.”

Harry was ready to give _him_ a few pointers, especially given Malfoy insisted on performing a ridiculous victory dance each time he bested Harry in a Seeker’s Game—which was more often than Harry’s ego could stomach—that Harry might have found terribly amusing if he hadn’t had to witness it on the heels of a bruising defeat.

But even finally managing to eke out more wins than losses, muscle memory eventually taking over to guide his body through manoeuvres his conscious mind had forgotten, wasn’t quite enough to keep cabin fever at bay, and Harry found he _needed_ to get out. To be around people—plural—in a setting outside the classroom or mealtimes. He needed to socialise _en masse_, and he felt like Malfoy probably did too.

Malfoy in the future had been isolated and ostracised by his friends as well as the community at large, and Harry was certain that lack of a social network to offer support and a helping hand had contributed to Malfoy’s downward spiral and eventual demise. Perhaps, then, if he helped _this_ Malfoy rebuild his own web of contacts—or even construct a new one, involving more than just fair-weather Slytherins—he’d have less reason to run, less reason to get caught, and less reason to let himself get drawn into whatever it was the Neo-Death Eaters had wanted with him.

This, though, was a trickier feat to manage—organically, at least—than learning a new Charm or Transfiguration spell. Malfoy’s pride might bend enough to allow Harry to meddle in _private_, but if he thought Harry was trying to set him up on the platonic equivalent of a blind date, there’d be hell to pay. Harry therefore had to go about this _subtly_, which was in fact quite difficult for him. He was pretty sure, too, that Malfoy suspected he was up to something, but perhaps thinking it would be more entertaining to watch Harry try and fail at whatever he was about, Malfoy never pressed him for details.

So that was when Harry invited Malfoy to join him in Hogsmeade on the upcoming weekend. 

“Absolutely not. Are you _mad_?” Malfoy had scoffed. “I doubt I’m even allowed.”

He was; Harry had checked, just in case. “Come on,” Harry had wheedled, pasting on his best entreating expression, though he knew it would have no effect on Malfoy. It might even encourage him to hold his ground, actually, just to break Harry’s heart. “I know a way we can sneak down—a private shortcut, so no need to mill about with the unwashed masses. And I’ve asked Aberforth to save us a table at the Hog’s Head, since it’ll be packed otherwise. You won’t have to mingle if you don’t want to.”

Malfoy had cut him a strange look then. “…Save us a _table_? What in the everloving fuck _for_?”

“Well, it’s Halloween weekend—if I don’t have Aberforth reserve us seats, it’ll be standing room only. And I figure there’ll be you, and me, and Ron and Hermione, and Neville and Seamus and Dean, and probably Ginny and Luna too, though I haven’t asked them yet. Maybe more, if I can get word out; either way, we’ll need a bit of space. Aberforth’s got a booth in the corner with an Undetectable Extension Charm on it, I’m pretty sure.”

“You invited your _lackeys_? Good gad, you mean to have them murder me, don’t you? That Dementor talk was poppycock—I’m meant to live a full, healthy life and you’ve just come back to see me done in by Gryffindors!”

Harry had rolled his eyes at Malfoy’s dramatics. “As if I need _help_ murdering you. I nearly managed it the once without even trying.” That had driven Malfoy back a step, rubbing at his chest with a wary glower. “And Luna’s a Ravenclaw, you know. You need to get out more—need to _talk_ to people more. Used to be we couldn’t get you to shut up, and now you’re locked away in the Room twenty-three hours a day it feels like. Stability’s what’s going to get you through any rough times ahead, and a steady job’s only going to half help. A circle of friends—even Gryffindors—can go a long way to making up the other half.” Harry had lifted his brows. “They’re good people, I swear. Show some effort at being decent, and they might even give you a pass on the _fifty_ apologies you owe them all for being an arsetit for their entire school career.”

This had pulled a sour frown from Malfoy. “I’m not a _child_. I don’t need you coddling me.”

“It’s not _coddling_—it’s doing what I can to make it so you’ll want to _come_. Because we’ve been sitting in this Room since September and it’s starting to drive me mad.”

“Then by all means: _leave_.”

They’d gone around in circles like that several times over the course of a week, each variation building on the last as Harry wore Malfoy down. He invited his friends of course—it was time he showed them the fruits of his labours—and then he invited any Slytherin in their year he could pin down. Neville he prodded into cornering Blaise Zabini, as they were both taking N.E.W.T.-level Herbology, and Parvati had been tasked with extending an invitation to Pansy Parkinson, with whom she shared a desk in Potions. Harry could probably have approached her himself, but even seven years later, he could still hear her shrieking in the midst of the Great Hall that _he’s right there!_ and so had no desire to interact with her any more than might be required if he was to be chummy with Malfoy.

Neville and Parvati had pulled through, though, and Harry had used the attendance of two whole Eighth-year Slytherins as the final carrot in his pocket before he resorted to using his stick. Malfoy had gaped when Harry had informed him both Zabini and Parkinson had already agreed to a Hogsmeade get-together, and Harry wondered if he’d done the right thing after all.

“They actually _agreed_ to this madness? Did you even tell them I was going to be along?”

“Er, no,” Harry had said, honest. “I mean, I didn’t want you to feel obligated…” Except perhaps he ought to have—that would’ve been the Slytherin thing to do, pressure Malfoy so that he risked social disgrace by appearing too terrified to lunch with students from other Houses. 

Malfoy had only sighed, “That’ll be why they agreed, then,” which Harry hadn’t quite understood. Malfoy had gone on to helpfully add, “…I’ve not exactly been on speaking terms with my Housemates. It’s difficult enough to reform your image wearing green and silver without saddling yourself with being associated with a Death Eater to boot.”

It had only been here that Harry had recalled both Zabini and Parkinson had left England after completing their compulsory education and had not, to his knowledge, returned since. Perhaps that had been part and parcel of distancing themselves from not just Malfoy but anything to do with the war. It was a tempting thing, Harry had to admit, and if he hadn’t had Ron and Hermione and Teddy and Andromeda and _everyone_, he might have considering something along the same lines. He’d always wanted to travel, after all.

But, “That’s ridiculous,” he’d said instead. “They’re your friends, aren’t they? You’re supposed to stick by your friends, even when they’re—”

“Even when they’re murderers?” Malfoy had cut in, with a derisive little leer, but he’d failed to hide the exhaustion in his voice, clearly tired of arguing with Harry. Harry had felt a nugget of despair lodge in his throat, because it was in moments like this that he caught glimpses of the old Malfoy (old_er_ Malfoy) creeping in, soft and subtly at the corners, like an ominous fog rolling in. 

And he’d worked too hard to let Malfoy start backsliding now. Malfoy’s idle self-flagellation was unmoving; Harry had been there, after all, had seen what had happened atop that tower. Malfoy lacked the disposition for murder—though Harry didn’t doubt he would have managed the _Cruciatus_ in Myrtle’s bathroom if Harry had given him the chance.

So he’d just shrugged off the challenge. “_My_ friends have stuck by me, all this time, even though I’ve brought them a lot of shit in the doing. Plus, I killed a bloke too. When I was seventeen. If you hadn’t heard.”

“Must have slipped my mind somehow,” Malfoy had drawled with a roll of his eyes.

“So I reckon we’ve both got our skeletons.”

“Please—your lackeys have stuck by you through all the trauma you’ve caused them because they’re _Gryffindors_, trained to be brave despite their better nature and in the face of certain doom, both literal and hyperbolic. Slytherins are _quite _the opposite.”

“Are they? Cause the way I’ve heard it most every year is ‘Perhaps in Slytherin you’ll meet your true friends’.”

And Malfoy hadn’t had a witty comeback to that, bringing his thumb to his lips and chewing nervously on the nail. “…I haven’t apologised to them yet.”

“Got a fair few apologies you need to work through then, don’t you?” Harry had tried to keep his tone light but not teasing.

Malfoy had cut him a wary look. “You said your lot would give me a pass.”

“They will. Probably. Doesn’t mean it wouldn’t still be the decent thing to do.”

Malfoy had just grunted in response, hunched over small. “…Doesn’t seem like it’d be right—showing up out of the blue and asking to break bread with them, as if it’s just another Hogsmeade weekend and I wasn’t instrumental in making my House’s good name synonymous with _Coward_ and _Backstabber_ and _Evil_.”

“You give yourself too much credit,” Harry had said, dodging Malfoy’s thrown leg. “But maybe you could buy them a drink, to start?”

And then Malfoy had sighed, let his head sink into his palms with a groan, and Harry had only just held back from doing a dancing little jig—clacking his heels together and all—because this meant he’d won.

Hermione and Ron, of course, thought he was mad—though that was generally how they felt about anything involving Harry and Malfoy. However, given that this time there would be alcohol and pub grub on service and Harry had assured them they needn’t interact with Malfoy if they didn’t care to (even though Malfoy would be, he assured them, on his _very_ best behaviour), they agreed to come along. “We shouldn’t…” Hermione had hedged, but Ron had jumped in helpfully with, “C’mon—he’s probably mucked up the timeline beyond repair by this point—” And Hermione had blanched at the thought. “—So why not roll with it? Besides, someone needs to make sure Malfoy keeps that forked tongue of his in his mouth.” Hermione had nodded firmly at this, which Harry was pretty sure meant there was a hard right hook with Malfoy’s name on it coming his way if he was even the tiniest bit snotty. Harry had to remind himself strongly he _didn’t_ want that to happen, no matter how satisfying it might be on some level.

This was Malfoy’s chance to prove he was worth consorting with. He kept banging on and on about wanting to save _himself_, being master of his own fate and all, so here Harry had lobbed him up a nice volley; it was up to _him _to send it rocketing. That he hadn’t rejected the notion he needed a circle of support outright suggested to Harry that Malfoy was actually very lonely, so Harry hoped the others gave him a chance. That Malfoy _let them_ give him a chance. Sure, maybe some of them—most of them, even—hated his guts right now, either on principle as a Slytherin or because they’d come up against him during the darker moments of the war. But they might drum up a bit of respect for him if they saw him fighting, instead of just taking his beating lying down as he’d seemed content to do before Harry had shown up.

As the Saturday in question dawned, Harry sent word around for the others to all meet at the Hog’s Head that afternoon; he’d bring up the rear with Malfoy, to spare him the need to make any small talk while they waited for everyone to arrive. 

Malfoy’s agreeing to participate in Harry’s ‘ridiculous House unity fantasy’ was predicated on the condition that Harry make good on his vow to sneak Malfoy down to the village through his ‘private shortcut’. Certain that Aberforth wouldn’t appreciate Harry just popping into his sitting room via Ariana Dumbledore’s portrait hanging over the mantle, Harry had decided to use the Honeydukes entrance, which had become free to pass through once more with the defeat of Voldemort and rousting of the Death Eaters from the castle. 

He and Malfoy had parted ways the evening prior with a promise to meet in front of the statue of the humpbacked witch on the third floor at precisely 4 o’clock. “Don’t make me come find you,” Harry had warned, and Malfoy had shown him a finger or two, spitting back _Piss off, stalker_.

But there he’d been, right on time. Early even, already leaning against Gunhilda’s statue, arms crossed over his chest, by the time Harry had rounded the corner, and Harry had had to remind his heart that there was no need to flutter about madly like that; it was just _Hogsmeade_.

It sent a little twinge of nostalgia through Harry as he stood before the statue, Malfoy at his back, and spoke _Dissendium_. He hadn’t needed to use this entrance in years—a decade now, really—but there’d been a time when this had been his only way to escape the castle and spend time with his friends. He wondered what the Marauders might think of his sharing it with the likes of Malfoy.

“How on earth did you find this?” Malfoy asked, eyeing the dark staircase that unfurled behind Gunhilda’s impressive hump with wary awe, as if he thought perhaps Harry himself had created it.

“My dad showed it to me,” Harry answered in all honesty.

“Your—_what_?” But Harry had already started down the steps, beckoning Malfoy to follow. He probably thought Harry was barmy, and that was all right.

They plodded along in darkness for quite a stretch. Harry had expected Malfoy to complain about the relative length of what was meant to be a ‘shortcut’ to Hogsmeade, but he didn’t. He didn’t have much to say at all, actually, and Harry didn’t feel the need to press him. Perhaps he was still steeling himself for the upcoming confrontation with Harry’s friends and his own Housemates, or perhaps he just wasn’t one for small talk. This _was_ the most they’d interacted outside of the Room, after all, barring that incident in the unused Potions lab. Even if Harry had wanted to chat while they walked, he wouldn’t have known what to start with.

Everyone was already gathered round their corner table at the Hog’s Head by the time Harry and Malfoy made it in, a few with half-empty mugs already in hand. Ron gave a bright, loud bellow of, “Harry Potter!” when he entered, which caused more than a few heads to swivel his way, and Harry wondered if he’d perhaps gotten started early in anticipation of having to spend a frightful afternoon in Malfoy’s presence. 

Hermione quickly _shush_ed him, though, and Harry scurried over, head ducked, with Malfoy close on his heels. The Notice-Me-Not he’d cast as they’d crept up out of the Honeydukes cellar had helped them keep a low profile while slinking through the crowded streets of Hogsmeade in the late afternoon, but not even his best spellwork would keep them from being clocked now Ron had announced to all and sundry that Harry had arrived.

“I got us a table _here_ over the Three Broomsticks because I thought we’d get more privacy,” Harry said, pointedly, shrugging off his coat and sending it flying to the rack along the wall. “Kind of defeats the purpose when you put out a full-page advert like that.”

“Psh,” Ron scoffed, nodding sagely to the barkeep. “Aberforth’ll keep us from being disturbed.” He gave a few generous sniffs in Harry’s direction. “Why do you smell like _dirt_?”

“Came up through the Honeydukes passage. Didn’t want to bother with the crowd.” Harry glanced around the table, taking stock of each face—old and new—and trying to gain a quick read of how they felt, seeing Malfoy arriving on his arm. Just to the left of Hermione and Ron were sat Luna, Ginny, and Neville, with Seamus and Dean already well into what looked to be their own private drinking game next to them. Padma sat stiffly next to Parvati, who was rubbing shoulders with a gobsmacked Pansy Parkinson while Blaise Zabini reclined against the banquette, fixing Malfoy with an expression Harry could not read. 

Malfoy was tense as a drawn bow at Harry’s side, and Harry could tell that, in his mind, he was already high-tailing it back to the castle. Well, tough shit—they were here now, and they were going to see this through. He herded Malfoy into one of the open seats and then slid in next to him, sandwiching him between Hermione and Harry so that he’d have to Apparate out if he wanted to escape—something Harry didn’t think was even possible with his Ministry wand.

Harry settled in and cleared his throat before anyone else could rethink their decision to attend this little get-together. “You all been waiting long?”

Ron gestured around the table. “Luna and Ginny got here first—they came down early with a pack of Seventh Years who’ve just come of-age and are revelling in it.”

“Some of us still know the meaning of _temperance_, O Brother Dearest,” Ginny reminded with a flutter of her lashes. “It’s rude to get started without all members of your party present, you know.” She flicked Harry a warm grin, and Harry gave her a polite nod of thanks in return. He’d learned, in the nearly two months now since his arrival, that he and Ginny _had_ already been broken up, so he was wary of giving her any degree of false hope. He knew this get-together hadn’t happened in his own timeline and hoped that she didn’t get the wrong idea about it. He wasn’t certain how he might feel if, on returning to the future, he learned he _had_ managed to keep Malfoy alive but was now married seven years to Ginny with two kids and a Crup. It wasn’t the _worst_ future he could imagine, by any means, but…it was one he’d moved beyond, he felt.

“Well, seeing as we’re all here now, a round of drinks won’t hurt, will it?” Harry signalled to Aberforth to set them up with something tame. Getting sauced too early in the evening wouldn’t be any help in fostering the bonds Harry was hoping might take root tonight. “So what were we talking about, before Malfoy and I got here?”

“…Mostly about the fact we were waiting on ‘you and Malfoy’,” Seamus said into the lip of his mug, taking another timely draw of his drink, and uneasy chuckles rippled around the group. Parkinson’s face grew somehow even more pinched and pug-like, and Zabini wrinkled his nose and began to trace the whorls and knots of the old wood table with a carefully manicured nail, the picture of elegant boredom. Malfoy looked like he was trying to sink back into the banquette, and Harry wondered if the bulging vein at his temple meant he was struggling to master wandless Apparition.

Oh bugger. Clearly if he didn’t steer the conversation himself, Malfoy was going to wind up on trial before his peers, and that could turn this otherwise friendly outing sour _quick_. While Harry had boasted that his friends wouldn’t demand apologies from Malfoy, content if he simply managed to conduct himself decently, he couldn’t be _entirely_ sure that—after a few drinks—some might be a little less friendly towards someone who’d made their collective lives a living hell for the better part of the last half-decade. Even Harry found it difficult some days.

“Well, I mean—stranger things have happened, yeah?”

Neville looked like he’d just been struck by a bludger. “Er…not _really_, I don’t feel like.”

“You must admit, you make a very curious couple,” Luna added, and god, Harry loved her, he really did, but he _didn’t_ need her characterising their relationship with unnecessarily suggestive phrasing right now. 

Harry cleared his throat. “Well—what about you guys? What’ve you been up to this year?” He turned to Luna and Ginny, hopeful. “Haven’t really gotten to talk to either of you outside of mealtimes. How are classes going?”

Ginny lifted a brow. “…Harry, we share most of our N.E.W.T. classes, you know…”

“And we see each other in Charms every Monday,” Luna added. “But you’re right, of course, we don’t chat nearly enough. Though silent companionship can be nice as well.” She leaned forward to glance over at Malfoy. “Wouldn’t you say so, Draco?”

Malfoy stiffened, eyes gone wide and hunted, and he shrank away from Luna—which had him practically climbing into Harry’s lap consequently, so naturally he leapt away from Harry as well and jostled Hermione in the doing, who spilled half her drink on Ron, sending him leaping to his feet with a squawk and a sharp, “What the fuck do you think you’re trying with Hermione, Malfoy?!” as he brandished his wand, eyes blazing.

God, forget the Dementors; he was going to get Malfoy killed _tonight_.

At length, and after another round of drinks on Harry—as well as enough servings of greasy chips, savoury pasties, and what Aberforth would only say was ‘roast bird’, declining to describe what _manner_ of bird walked about on drumsticks the size of one’s head—the group finally settled once more, and Harry breathed a private sigh of relief. 

But the damage, it seemed, had already been done. Conversations were slow to start, and when they did, they were mostly had between those who already conversed frequently—and they _never_ involved Malfoy. Not that Harry expected Malfoy would have engaged, even if pressed to do so by social mores, but still. It was the thought that counted. Hermione kept glancing his way, opening her mouth on a few occasions, like she was just on the verge of asking a question or prompting with an idle comment, but then Ron would distract her with a playful squeeze, or Luna would ask about a Charm they’d been practising in class that week, and they’d be back to square one. 

He hadn’t planned this well at all. He shouldn’t have just dropped Malfoy in the middle of Gryffindor-infested waters, even _with_ the ostensible life raft of two Slytherins for support. This evening would end with everyone involved drunk or angry or both, and then Malfoy would _never_ reach out again. And that was assuming he trusted Harry’s judgement at all after this.

It was time to start making big, bold moves. If this was going to be his _one_ chance, if he was going to have mucked things up either way, then what did he have to lose, really? Absolutely nothing—that was the Harry Potter way of things. And if being too ‘Harry Potter’ was what had gotten him into this mess in the first place, then perhaps it could be what got him out of it as well.

“What about you, Parkinson?”

At the opposite end at the table, Parkinson went stiff as a board on being addressed. She looked stricken, and not a little like she’d been halfway considering slipping out while their backs were turned. Granted, she probably thought she had good reason to be scared of Harry, but her transgressions during the war—less a product of willful malice and more simple self-preservation—had happened years back in Harry’s mind, so long ago he’d nearly forgotten them. He’d certainly suffered more painful betrayals, and he was no more looking for an apology from her than he was from Malfoy. 

Parkinson seemed to recall herself quickly, though, when Zabini nudged her gently with an elbow. “What _about_ me?” she asked snippily, and oh _Slytherins_, always so short when they were nervous. Malfoy had jeered at him back in Azkaban for being an easy read, but his own Housemates weren’t much better.

Harry nodded to Parvati, sat next to her. “Well, Parvati’s going for her Potions N.E.W.T. because she’s angling for a St. Mungo’s internship, yeah?” Parvati nodded primly. “And you’re the only other girl taking N.E.W.T.-level Potions.” Even Hermione had finally buckled, deciding she’d rather have _Outstanding_s in a smaller pool of classes than go all-out on a full course-load and only manage _Exceeds Expectations_ at best. 

“What’s my being a _girl_ have to do with Potions?” She curled her lip, raking Harry with a seething gaze. “Think women aren’t fit to be Potions Masters?”

“Hey now.” Harry held up his hands; he’d wanted the conversation to pick up, but _not _like this. “I suggested no such thing. I just thought you might have an interesting reason, that’s all. Are you…er, trying to become a Potions Master, then?”

“Wouldn’t it be a Potions _Mistress_?” Zabini asked, feigned innocence in his posh drawl, and Ron snorted.

“Sounds a bit kinky if you ask me,” he said, cheeks rosy, then slapped a hand over his own mouth.

Zabini leaned forward, elbows on the table, clearly engaged now the talk had taken a ribald turn, and made a sinful face of bliss. “Oh, _please_ Mistress Parkinson, help me rub this residue off my dirty, _filthy_ stirring rod.”

Parkinson pinched him sharply on the arm—probably for the best, as Seamus and Dean looked like they were ready to continue the act with their own renditions while Ginny had gone so red her freckles practically disappeared (though the reluctant little smile on her face said she wasn’t too displeased with the conversation’s trajectory), and Neville was resolutely finishing off his mug in one long draw. Padma and Parvati were sliding under the table, their eyes wide and white and cheeks flushing darkly. Hermione had her face buried against Ron’s shoulder, so Harry couldn’t tell if the heaving of her back was from laughter or shudders of horror, and Luna, of course, was just enjoying everyone finally relaxing a bit now they had some drink in them. 

“Don’t be crude, Blaise,” Parkinson sniffed. “A Potions Mistress would never _help_.” She relaxed back against the banquette. “She’d sit back, arched against that lovely mahogany desk, and _watch_.” 

“Oh my god, is it always like this?” Harry muttered under his breath, too scandalised to speak in tones above a whisper. Malfoy had his face buried in his hands, spine curved in shame, and Harry imagined if he’d had an extra pair of hands, they’d be plugging his ears right about now. 

Malfoy groaned softly. “She’s not even drunk yet; brace yourself.”

Luna, bless her, brought the conversation back around to tamer topics—to the clear disappointment of Zabini, Seamus, and Dean. “Will you be going into Healing as well then, like Parvati?” she asked.

“Merlin, no,” Parkinson said with an exaggerated shudder. “I wouldn’t be caught _dead_ in robes so supersaturated.” She thrust her nose into the air, shoulders giving a little shimmy that set off her short bob. Her smile was slim and superior: “Magicosmetology; I’ve a standing invitation to enrol at Uppsala in their Commercial Potioneering program on graduation.” 

“Oh!” Luna gasped, clapping softly. “Congratulations! I’ve heard it’s a very demanding course.” Parkinson preened in the glow of Luna’s effusive praise. “And please, if you’re lucky enough to come across one, would you snap a photo of any Crumple-horned Snorkacks you see and Owl it to me? _The Quibbler_ will pay top Galleon for it!” She turned to Ginny, seated beside her, and explained as if she hadn’t done so a dozen times before already, “Sweden _is_ their native habitat, after all, though they generally prefer the mountains to the lowlands. Will your studies take you into the Scandinavian mountain range, do you think?” This, she directed at Parkinson, who looked once again stricken. Perhaps she thought Luna’s questions were a cruel practical joke and not simply her ingrained quirkiness. Harry decided to let her figure it out on her own.

This exchange set the ice between the factions to thawing, and as dusk wore on into evening proper and lips loosened with the flow of drink and food, the last of the tension among their group sloughed away. Well, for two-thirds of the Slytherins present, at least; Parkinson and Zabini seemed to get on decent enough with Harry’s friends, but Malfoy did his level best to avoid being drawn into any conversations, sitting stiff and silent next to Harry and disinclined to change that fact.

And Harry didn’t want to push him; it had been a big enough ask just getting Malfoy here to begin with. But equally so, it seemed _such_ a waste for Malfoy to be here, sat in the middle of a group who might actually give him half a chance if he stepped up, and be content to play the wallflower. Recalling how his earlier efforts to keep from spooking Malfoy had nearly resulted in him not coming along at all, Harry decided a bit of encouragement might do some good and cleared his throat for the table’s attention.

“So—I’m tutoring Malfoy in Charms. And Defence. A bit of Transfiguration, too.”

As soon as the words had left his lips, though, he instantly regretted them. The whole table turned his way, every eye staring at him—and Malfoy—with varying degrees of shock and surprise. Harry could not see Malfoy himself, not from this angle, but he could _feel_ the anger and white-hot shame radiating off of him, no doubt furious at having so much undue attention directed his way—which was, admittedly, kind of funny, considering Malfoy had once craved such attentions and basked in the adulation of his fawning hangers-on.

But the more he considered it, the more clearly Harry could see what the others were seeing as well, dragged into the stark light of day by Harry’s casual announcement: Malfoy couldn’t function properly, not now that the Ministry had given him a useless, stripped-down wand, so he was Harry’s charity project, the lucky recipient of the Saviour’s latest do-good efforts.

It wasn’t the _attention_ Malfoy shied away from—it was the pity. 

“That’s very kind of you,” Luna said, smiling warmly, and Harry jumped right on it, scrambling to set the misconception to rights.

“Oh, no! No, it’s not for credit or anything. I’m, er—he’s going to…be my assistant.”

“_Assistant_?” Parkinson sneered, disgust thick in her tone, and she raked Malfoy with a gaze that had an edge of disappointment to it, as if she couldn’t believe he’d been brought so low, his image in her eye well and truly shattered. Oh _bugger it_.

“Partner,” Harry corrected quickly, for if he couldn’t right this ship and _fast_, Malfoy really _was_ going to just Apparate out of here, whether his Ministry wand wanted to tolerate the spell or not. “I was—we were thinking of…” He groped for an excuse, _any_ excuse. “We were thinking of starting up the DA again.”

It was _genius_.

“You’re—_what_?” Ron squawked, but Harry’s mind was already off to the races.

Even with Voldemort’s curse on the position lifted, few had been keen to play guinea pig as the new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, fearing it might be tantamount to a death wish. As such, the course in Harry’s Eighth Year had largely been one of book-learning and the occasional guest lecturer. It was a similar situation this second time around, Harry’s meddling in Malfoy’s life having done nothing to influence who had applied for the Defence post, and it seemed to him the needs were the same now as they’d been back in Fifth Year under Umbridge’s reign: there was a vacuum that needed filling, lessons that needed learning.

“I mean, we aren’t getting much done in Defence this year, you have to admit—and I reckon…well, you can never be too careful, right? Most of us here could handle ourselves, if the need arose, but our schoolmates might not be so lucky. There’s no reason they ought to miss out on a year of learning just because no one’s willing to risk their neck taking on the position.”

“Well, yeah, but…” Ron hedged, giving Harry a pleading look, but Harry held firm.

“The DA did a lot of good before, and maybe…maybe it could’ve done even _better_ if we’d been a bit more inclusive, you know? If we’d let anyone who wanted to take part do so.” And now he wasn’t just talking out of his arse. He really _had_ been thinking about it. He’d done a _lot_ of thinking about ‘what might have been’ lately, and this was but an extension of such considerations. Sure, it’d been word about their activities reaching the wrong ears that had gotten the club shut down in the first place, but if they’d been proactive about it instead of just settling for a ‘well, three out of four isn’t bad’ mentality when it came to Houses invited to attend, maybe things might have gone down differently. 

“What’s this ‘DA’ business?” Zabini asked, his tone still that posh, bored drawl but with a hint of interest behind it.

“Dumbledore’s Army,” Seamus announced proudly, giving a little salute to the heavens. 

“But we’d change the name of course,” Harry quickly added. “It was just the name we used at the time, to keep the purpose of the club secret.”

“So you _weren’t_ Dumbledore’s little child soldiers-in-training, then?” Parkinson asked, one slender black brow quirked, and Harry supposed she had a point.

Padma jumped in before Harry could respond: “But, well, that was back when You-Know-Who was running around, right? I don’t know that a Defence club is really all that necessary now… It’s not as if there are Dark wizards lurking around every corner or Dementors ready to swoop down and make off with our souls, yeah?” Parvati nodded beside her, and Parkinson cut the both of them a sour look.

“It’s not about whether or not people need these skills _now_,” Harry said. “It’s about being able to defend ourselves _period_. And like I said: just because _we_ might feel confident in our skills doesn’t mean our classmates feel the same way, especially the younger students. We’ve got a lot of experience under our collective belts, and without a proper professor in the Defence position this year, I feel like we should step up, you know?” He glanced around the table, though most were avoiding his eye. Traitors, the lot of them. He sighed. “I mean, it’s really the only way any of us are going to be able to pass our Defence N.E.W.T.s, let’s be honest. I dunno about you, but I’m miles behind on my reading.”

Ron snorted. “Yeah, cause they’re gonna give _Harry Potter_ a _Troll_ for Defence.”

“I’d like to think defeating a Dark Lord gets you an automatic _O_,” Seamus added unhelpfully, and Harry rolled his eyes, opening his mouth to remind them he wasn’t going to tolerate favouritism from the examiners and they ought to take this more seriously, as Harry definitely was—

“And if we aren’t sitting Defence N.E.W.T.s?” Zabini asked, cool and casual, and Harry straightened up. Zabini was still relaxing back against the banquette, all lazy elegance, but his eyes were sharp, and Harry could see that crafty Slytherin mind whirring, trying to pick out any angles to Harry’s offer.

Well let him; there _was_ no angle. Just a very good opportunity for Malfoy to finally get out there, amongst his peers, and prove there was more to him than the pompous good-for-nothing prick many—even Harry—had taken him for. Harry _ached_ to prove to Ron and Hermione that this was worth it, that what he was doing with Malfoy was for the best, and teaming up like this, doing good _together_, was the quickest way to do so.

“Then you don’t have to come,” he said. “Or come and train in something other than Defence. There are plenty of useful Charms and Jinxes and Hexes they don’t cover in the Defence N.E.W.T. coursework. No one _has_ to come, I guess—it’s just an open invitation. For anyone, actually; not just those of us here. Any year, any House.” He wanted this made clear; he’d fucked up when he was younger by letting petty rivalries and the mistrust they fostered get in the way of winning over people who might have been a real help in turning the tide of the war a hell of a lot earlier than it’d come down to. Granted, he had the benefit of hindsight now, but he wasn’t going to let it happen again, nor was he going to let his friends make the same mistakes he had. “…So, er, is anyone…feeling up to joining?”

“I’m in,” Ginny said, immediately, brows quirking, and Harry gave her another grateful nod, taking care not to favour her with too much attention. God, how had he made it out of Eighth Year not engaged to her the first time around? 

“Us too!” Seamus said clinking his glass against Dean’s. 

“‘Trained with Harry Potter’ won’t look bad on the ol’ CV, that’s for sure,” Dean added.

“Yeah, I reckon it could be fun,” Neville said with a shrug. “As long as it doesn’t conflict with my extracurriculars in the Greenhouses. I’ll invite Hannah along too.”

“I’ll take part as well,” said Luna, “Though I won’t be able to make any meetings held the final week of each month.” She turned to Padma at her side, explaining, “I’m interning to be a full-time editor for _The Quibbler_, and that’s printing time!”

Padma gave her an uneasy smile, then turned to her sister, and in chorus they chimed, “We’re in, too.” Parvati seemed to consider for a moment, then gently elbowed Parkinson. “Come on. Harry’s a really good teacher, honest. You could learn a lot from him.”

Parkinson flinched, pulling away and shoving up against Zabini with her nose wrinkled in disdain. “Think I’m _stupid_, do you, Patil?”

Parvati looked hurt, and Harry leapt to intervene: “Malfoy’s getting lessons; do you think _he’s_ stupid?”

“_Don’t_ answer that, Parkinson,” Malfoy grit out, the first words he’d contributed to the group at large since they’d arrived, and Parkinson gave him a nasty smile.

Harry felt his stomach tighten—the DA bit had been a spur of the moment thought, but there was no point to it if Malfoy wasn’t keen to participate as well, and he did not seem at all pleased with the way things were unfolding. Harry had learned over the past several weeks that you usually had to give Malfoy no choice when it came to getting him to do something, but that didn’t mean Harry _liked_ practically forcing him into situations, whether they were for Malfoy’s own good or not. After all, he—more than anyone else at the table—knew how galling it was to have no control over your own future.

“…We can invite others?”

Zabini’s question pulled Harry from his thoughts. “What?”

“You said any year, any House; you’re leaving judgement as to who’s fit to participate in this ‘DA’ of yours up to others?”

“It’s not _mine_,” Harry said. “And there’s no ‘fitness to participate’—it’s just whether or not someone _wants_ to take part. If you think they’d like it, then by all means, bring them along. You’d be doing us a favour, actually, spreading the word like that. I don’t see any reason the club should be _secret_, though I’d rather keep it to word of mouth for the time being. I don’t want to run afoul of the professors—”

“_There’s_ a change,” Hermione muttered, and both Ron _and_ Malfoy snorted their agreement. Harry shot all three of them frowns. Definitely traitors, the lot of them.

He turned back to Zabini, managing an encouraging smile. “But yeah, go for it.”

Zabini nodded, and Harry didn’t know if that meant he was in, or that he’d just consider it—but Parkinson clearly felt backed into a corner, either way. She rolled her eyes and gave a gruff, grudging sigh, crossing her arms. “…All right, I’m game, I suppose. But _only_ because Uppsala requires at least an _E_ on the core N.E.W.T.s for all incoming students, regardless of focus.” She pinned Harry with a fierce gaze. “You’d better be as good as your word, Potter.”

“He _did _slay You-Know-Who,” Luna reminded primly.

“Yeah, with _Expelliarmus_,” Ginny snorted in rejoinder.

“A win’s a win,” Harry said, a bit defensive. Sure, _Expelliarmus_ was probably not topping anyone’s list of Most Useful Spells for Defeating Dark Wizards, but there was something to be said for being unpredictable and having so extensive a repertoire your opponent couldn’t be sure what you might pull out. Not that ‘Harry Potter leads with _Expelliarmus_’ was unpredictable, but that was beside the point.

Deciding that they’d engaged in enough ‘shop talk’ for what was meant to be a relaxing Hogsmeade weekend meet-up, Harry informed the table he and Malfoy would put their heads together to hash out a formal schedule for the meetings and notify them all of when and where to gather in due course. He then sealed the discussion by ordering another round for the entire table and a cauldron of fresh chips to share between them. There wasn’t much that hot, greasy, salty starch couldn’t save, and while Malfoy refused to partake, lip curling in disgust when Harry offered him a handful, neither Zabini nor Parkinson were nearly as modest. 

Time stretched, and drinks continued to flow, cracking the tension that had dammed up conversation like the spring thaw. Hermione was discussing her N.E.W.T. thesis topic with Ginny and Neville, and Ron had drawn up a chair next to Seamus, Dean, and Zabini to talk the start of the Hogwarts Quidditch Season. Luna and Padma were engrossed in an animated discussion of the upcoming blue moon and its implications for their joint Divination project—and then there were Parvati and Parkinson, having their own little chat in tones too low to be heard over the din of the pub, heads inclined.

Well _that_ was new, Harry thought with a frown, and oh _no_, had he unwittingly meddled in _their_ lives now too, arranging this interaction that more than likely had not happened before? Granted, he had not been so close with Parvati he knew her every move, especially how she’d spent her Eighth Year the first time around, but surely he would have recalled…well, _anything _happening between her and the likes of Pansy Parkinson. 

He knew Parkinson had gone abroad after graduation—but beyond that, her name hardly came up in day-to-day conversation. And what had become of Parvati after Hogwarts? She professed to be bound for St. Mungo’s, but hadn’t one of the Patil twins gone on to become an Obliviator? Or had that perhaps been another Patil? He’d never seen either of the twins in the canteen during his lunches with Ron and Hermione, and what were the chances he’d never have seen them once if they worked in the same building for five years?

He shook his head, the fuzziness that came with too much drink starting to blur the edges of his memory. No sense dwelling on it now; they were grown-arse witches, they could do what they liked. And Harry hadn’t interfered in any _meaningful_ way, had he? They were already Potions partners; for all Harry knew, in his future, they shared a flat together in wizarding Stockholm, and Parvati bred show-quality Kneazles while Parkinson Apparated door-to-door pushing her latest cosmetic concoctions on unsuspecting housewitches. Harry had been a bit caught up with himself in Eighth Year; they could have been snogging under the stands at every Quidditch game and he wouldn’t have noticed.

At length, though, the evening began to wind down. The sun had given way to a fresh nearly full moon that was making its way toward its zenith, and the Hog’s Head was spilling customers in varying states of drunkenness onto the streets. Harry lingered as his friends began to stumble back up High Street towards the castle, dropping coins into Aberforth’s liver-spotted grasp to cover their orders for the evening as well as a tip in gratitude for saving them a table.

“Just don’t make a habit of it, Potter,” Aberforth had grumbled, sending him on his way with a sharp look at Malfoy. Harry wondered if he knew what part Malfoy had played in Dumbledore’s demise, or if he was just offended by Malfoy’s presence on principle. 

There was no discounting it was a little bit of both, actually.

Harry found, as he stumbled into the street and struggled to get his feet functioning properly, that he was _rather_ a lot more drunk than he’d intended to get, though at least the alcohol in his blood helped stave off the biting cold carried into the village on the evening gusts. When he tripped over his own feet in one particularly graceless act, Malfoy rushed to grab him by the arm, heaving him back to his feet with a grunt.

“Pull yourself together, Potter. Unless you want me to try Levitating you back to the castle with my Ministry wand. Any consequences will be quite literally on your head.”

Harry leaned into him, squinting to try and make out his features in the low lamplight of High Street. “How come you’re not as drunk as me?”

“Because I know how to pace myself,” Malfoy said, hauling Harry forward with a jerk. “And I’m also pretty sure the barman waters down his drinks.”

“No!” Harry gasped, scandalised. “Aberforth would never! Not to _me_!” Harry had half a mind to go back and demand his Galleons be returned. If Aberforth was going to do business that way, the least he could do was re-open the connection between his tavern and the Room of Requirement so they could partake of his wares even while confined to school grounds. Filch couldn’t stop booze being smuggled inside if he didn’t know it existed in the first place. 

“Suppose you’re not as grand the celebrity you’re cracked up to be.” Harry groaned, open-mouthed, and Malfoy retched dramatically. “Good gad, your breath _reeks_. For someone with a seven-year head start, you sure can’t hold your drink.”

“Don’t you ever have anything _nice_ to say?”

“Not to you, no.”

“Well why _not_ to me? I’m Harry Potter. Everyone wants to be nice to me. I killed a man once.”

“_Quiet down_, you knob,” Malfoy hissed, head whipping around fearfully, and Harry didn’t _think_ he was being terribly loud, but perhaps he was, because it felt like everyone was staring at them as they trudged their way back to the castle along the main thoroughfare leading up from Hogsmeade. “And you’ve rather a lot of nerve—”

“You told me that already. Thought we were past that.”

“—dragging me into this _Army_ of yours. Did you even ask if I was keen to join? No, of course not. Because you _never_ ask me to do anything.”

“Well that’s ‘cause you always say no. So.” Harry shrugged. “Easier this way. And don’ worry. We’ll change the name.” He leaned his weight onto Malfoy, draping himself across Malfoy’s shoulders. “Don’t need armies anymore. Just…” He frowned in thought, then it came to him: “Alliances.”

“Hm. So _Dumbledore’s Alliance_, then?”

No, that didn’t sound quite right. Dumbledore’s time had passed—it was their own now. “Maybe… Harry and Malfoy’s Alliance.”

“Doesn’t really roll off the tongue.”

“The Harr-foy Alliance.” Harry made a face as soon as he’d voiced the suggestion. “No. No, that’s terrible, even Drunk Me can tell.” He tripped over a stone on the path, and Malfoy tightened the arm he had slipped around Harry’s waist to keep him from face-planting. “Harco. Drarry. God, they’re _all_ terrible. Why are you letting me suggest terrible names for our alliance?”

“It’s not _our_ alliance,” Malfoy said, because he always had to be a contrary wanker.

But he had something of a point. “I suppose you’re right…” It wasn’t just theirs; it was meant to be everyone’s. _Really_ everyone’s this time. “Hermione came up with the last name. Maybe we should get her to name this one, too.”

Malfoy groaned. “Merlin save us; it’ll be some atrocious acronym.”

Harry gave a rough, coughing chuckle, then cleared his throat and spoke with an exaggerated falsetto: “_Welcome to the first meeting of H.A.R.R.Y., or ‘Hogwarts Attendees who Really Revile You-Know-Who_.’”

“Ugh, I _refuse_ to be involved in such an organisation,” Malfoy muttered, steering Harry back onto the path when he’d started to veer off towards the thick brush banking either side. 

“…Cause you don’t revile You-Know-Who?” Harry said, conscious of his volume, because Malfoy could be absurdly sensitive about his loyalties from the war. Why couldn’t he just _say_ he’d fucked up and bet on the wrong horse? Harry couldn’t imagine he’d have willingly committed genocide or strung up Muggles for fun, as his master would have had him do—not if his future self’s claims of wanting nothing to do with the Neo-Death Eaters were to be believed. 

Malfoy gave him a long, unreadable look—unreadable both because Harry had double-vision from his overindulgence and because the path back to Hogwarts from the village was not terribly well lit. “…Don’t be a knob, Potter.”

“Well you’ve never _said_ so.”

“Actions are meant to speak louder than words.” 

And Harry’s thoughts drifted back—and back and back—to that confrontation at the Manor, how Malfoy had stood there, staring him straight in the eyes and _knowing_ him. How he hadn’t given Harry up, proving that Slytherins had their own brand of bravery, just as bold and unbending as a Gryffindor’s if not quite as flashy. “…Yeah, suppose you’re right.”

They eventually made it back to the castle, the moon riding high in the sky and lighting up Malfoy’s white-blond hair like a beacon, drawing every eye still out and about their way. Even the staff seemed gobsmacked by the appearance of Draco Malfoy lugging a sauced Harry Potter up the front steps through the heavy double doors, and Filch frowned at them with threat writ large on his face, like he was just waiting to bring down hell on them for starting a row. 

Several staircases later, huffing and puffing—on Malfoy’s part—they finally managed to make it back to the Fat Lady’s portrait. Malfoy was an unhealthy shade of pink, sweat glistening on his temples, and he was more leaning on Harry now than Harry was leaning on him. 

“What kind of a maniac—puts his Common Room—at the top of a tower…” Malfoy muttered, swallowing thickly and taking great, panting breaths.

“Room of Requirement’s right around the corner,” Harry said, nearly clocking Malfoy across the jaw as he flung his arm out, pointing toward the seventh-floor corridor. “You come up here almost every day. Why’re you all huffy now?”

“Not hauling your fat arse up here every day, am I?”

“My arse isn’t fat…” Harry said, craning his neck to try and see. Sure, he’d let himself go a bit since he didn’t have any requisite physicals to stay in shape for these days, and the most exercise he got up to was the odd Seeker’s Game in the Room, but he didn’t think he was _that_ bad off. Not that tonight’s indulgence was going to help matters. “Speaking of the Room, ‘s not too late yet… Wanna get in some practise?” Now they were inside and out of the evening chill, he was feeling overwarm and full of energy—he wanted to burn it off. Maybe blow something up. 

“Pass. You’ll Hex your own head off at this point, and while that would be a sight to see, I think perhaps you should not. Especially seeing as you’ve got people counting on you for ‘training’ now.” 

Harry shook a finger in his face. “You drastically underestimate my abilities. I could beat another Voldemort or three without breaking a sweat.” 

“Yes, yes,” Malfoy said placatingly, turning to the portrait and feeling about its edges as if looking for a catch. “I’m sure you could. How do you get in here? Does one knock?”

“One provides a _password_,” Harry said, in what he thought was a fair rendition of the Fat Lady’s voice; she did not seem to agree, tossing the wine from her glass in Harry’s direction with a sputtering _How rude!_

“Ah. Well, I’ll leave you to it, then.” He clapped Harry on the shoulder, then brushed past him. “Good night, Potter.”

Harry grabbed him by the wrist as he drew away, squinting. God, he hated needing glasses again. “Oi. Are you still pissed off I roped you into this H.A.R.R.Y. business?”

Malfoy jerked his hand free. “We aren’t calling it that.”

“Then the—Drarry Allia—”

“_Or_ that.” He tugged on his lapels, which did nothing to make him look less rumpled, given he was still pink about the cheeks and breathing heavily. “And whatever gave you that idea? Can’t you see I’m just _suffuse_ with joy you’ve informed all your lackeys I’m one of the horde now?”

Harry only understood perhaps half of those words through his buzz, but he was pretty sure strung together like that they meant Malfoy _was_ still pissed off. “Come on. Promise it’ll be fun.”

“Do I _look_ like I want to have fun with that lot?”

“You _look_ like you want to take two steps and then collapse. Should we be having more Seeker’s Games, you think? Don’t remember you being this much of a featherweight before…” He reached over to tweak one of Malfoy’s biceps—only to be struck upside the head with Malfoy’s Ministry wand. “Ow.”

“Of course you’d be a grabby drunk,” Malfoy huffed, holstering his wand in his sleeve. “I’d offer you a Sobering Charm, but I’m afraid it’s not been programmed into this wand, so you’ll have to dry up the old-fashioned way.”

Harry wrinkled his nose. “You’re barely of age; how do you know a Sobering Charm?”

“You’re pushing forty; how do you _not_?”

“I’m not _pushing forty_. And I know one. I just…choose not to cast it.”

Malfoy eyed him dubiously, arms crossed over his chest. “Is it an _Aguamenti_ to the face? Because that’s not a Sobering Charm.”

“…Might be an _Aguamenti_ to the face, fair enough.” Harry ran a hand through his hair, mussing it into an even more hopeless mess than before, and he thought he heard Malfoy make a small noise of despair. “You never answered me. About the—club.”

“I did, actually. Quite clearly.”

“Yeah, but I told you, it’ll be _fun_—”

“That I highly doubt,” Malfoy said, then sighed, resigned. “But I’ve come to realise you’re quite the meddlesome wanker and can be rather insufferable when you don’t get your way.”

“Oi, I’m not insuff—wait.” Harry’s brows beetled as he squinted at Malfoy. “You didn’t already think I was meddlesome?” He was _pretty_ sure he’d heard Malfoy use those exact words to describe him, in fact.

“No, I thought you were an interfering prick.” 

Oh, that sounded familiar as well. But: “And how is that _different_?” 

Malfoy shrugged. “It simply is. It’s a fine nuance, but trust it’s there.” He grabbed Harry by the shoulders and steered him towards the portrait. “Don’t break your neck getting into bed.”

“Now who’s an interfering prig?”

“_Prick_.”

“Well that’s rude. And I’ll break my neck if I want to. I’m twenty-five years old, going on forty.” He stumbled forward and out of Malfoy’s grip, swivelling on his heel to turn and shake a finger in Malfoy’s face. “You should call me _Sir_. Show a bit of respect for the—” He tapped just at his shoulder, where his Auror’s badge usually was pinned—except he wasn’t an Auror yet and therefore had no badge. He frowned down at himself, muttering, “…The badge. Should be just there.”

Malfoy’s gaze followed to where Harry had pointed, then travelled back up, tracing the line where shoulder melded into neck and up to his jaw and nose and eyes. He looked a little wobbly himself now, eyes darkened to a stormy grey, and maybe he wasn’t as not-drunk as he’d claimed. It was entirely possible that rosy flush was a product of Aberforth’s bottles of Ogden’s and not the exertion of scaling the castle’s numerous staircases.

But then he blinked and turned away in one smooth motion, and he gave Harry a jaunty little backwards wave as he marched down the corridor, making for the staircase. “A tempting offer. Ask me again once you’ve sobered up, and then we’ll see.” 

Harry watched him go, mind too muzzy to process his parting words. “…Huh?” he tried, but Malfoy was already swishing away, out of earshot.

He shuffled back to the portrait, staring up at the Fat Lady. “You dunno any Sobering Charms, do you?”

“Heavens, no,” she shuddered in distaste. “What a waste of a good sousing.”

Harry’s shoulders slumped. _Aguamenti_ to the face it would have to be.


	9. Chapter 9

Harry supposed he had taken it as given that Ron and Hermione would be on board with the new Defence training club. This, it turned out, was a mistake, for Hermione wasted no time at all informing Harry of what a stupid, really totally foolish, and bound to screw up the timeline _irreparably_ bad idea this was.

“Meddling in Malfoy’s affairs is bad enough, you must realise, but this? This is a _thousand_ times worse! Who knows what ripple effects this could have—I don’t think I’ve ever spoken three words to Blaise Zabini, and last night _I spoke ten_! Ten, Harry!” Hermione covered her face with a pillow, screaming into it, to the bemusement of a gaggle of Fifth Years heading out the door to breakfast. 

“Can you maybe have a quieter breakdown, please?” Ron muttered, curled into a little ball next to her and massaging his temples with a wince. The cheery morning light filtering in through the Common Room’s tall glazed windows threw in stark relief just how peaky he was looking. “Or help me look for my Mandrake earmuffs?”

“I’m not having a _breakdown_,” Hermione said, pulling the pillow away and chucking it at Ron’s head. “And Summon the earmuffs if you must—this is _important_!” She turned back to Harry, who had just been considering Summoning a pair of earmuffs for himself. The _Aguamenti_ to the face had only left him drenched and chilled, and he worried the stunt had earned him a head cold, though the pounding in his head was in all likelihood just a hangover like Ron’s. “Harry, honestly, I’m _this_ close to going to McGonagall—”

“What? No!” Harry sat straight up in his armchair, glasses askew, and his head throbbed in protest at the sudden movement. He was starving, but worried anything he put in his mouth would only leap back out moments later, and his mouth felt like a very fuzzy, woollen desert, which was not a pleasant sensation at all. “You promised you’d give me ‘til Christmas!”

“I promised you that when you were helping out with research—” She snapped her wand, erecting a quick _Muffliato_ before continuing on breathlessly, “—back before you decided to throw a wrench into the timeline by sticking your nose into Draco Malfoy’s business!”

“But I had to! I told you: I’m not going to just sit back and let him _die_—”

“And that’s one thing, but _Harry_.” She sighed, her hair particularly bushy this morning and barely restrained with a band. “You’re—branching out. It’s not just Malfoy’s life you’re affecting now, but _everyone_’s. All your friends’! You can’t know how this will influence the future—I’m not kidding when I tell you, Harry, that you might have just done something that gets one of us _killed_.”

And Harry thought that was being rather dramatic; how could learning to defend yourself put you in _danger_? If anything, these lessons were going to help ensure his friends—and whatever Parkinson and Zabini were—stayed safe. Hermione, though, didn’t seem able to see the big picture. She saw this as _meddling_ and not _helping_. And he was all right with that, but his head couldn’t take another round of the same argument right now, not so early in the morning before the hangover had sloughed off. 

So he fibbed. “Listen, Hermione—I know you don’t think I get the risk that comes with…with me doing this, but honestly, I think on this point it really is all right? I mean, we did this back in Eighth Year before. The Defence Club. When I went through it the first time, I mean.”

Hermione gave him a dubious look. “…You did?”

Harry nodded, the lie beginning to spiral. “It was supposed to just be those of us who were considering joining the Auror Program, to give ourselves an edge—but I figured maybe this time…this time I’d have it be more than just a stepping stone for a handful of Gryffindors, y’know?” And even as he spoke, he felt a kernel of self-directed irritation lodge in his chest, because why _hadn’t_ he done this the first time? Well, he knew why, and he knew this was only unfolding as it was because he had seven years’ worth of experience to fall back on, seven years of time to have mourned and healed and grown, and sure, he hadn’t managed all of that half as well as others had, but he was here now, ready to make reparations, and he was _going_ to do it. “Just—this is the right thing to do, Hermione. It was right before, and it’ll be even _righter_ now. I’m going to take responsibility for it, I promise.”

She still looked unconvinced. “…You really should leave well enough alone, though. It’s one thing to involve the same people as before, but another matter entirely to reach out to new people, and I know you mean well, but just—” She pursed her lips, shoulders slumping as she released a long breath. “You of all people should know the best of intentions don’t always result in the brightest outcomes.”

Harry’s chest tightened. No, no they did not. But he’d come too far to shift course now, and he wouldn’t be Harry Potter if he didn’t live—and live again—on the edge, now would he? 

In the end, Hermione conceded that, if this had all happened once before, then they were best served letting it happen again, and while she was not thrilled with the idea of inviting students to join who had not been a part of the initial experience in Harry’s own time, she let the matter lie for the time being, which Harry counted as a win.

Hermione’s consent obtained, Harry’s next order of business was convincing Malfoy to give over the Room to Defence training. It wasn’t _his_ Room in the first place, but as Malfoy was the one who spent the bulk of his time there and Harry did not want to, after having worked so hard to earn his trust, crush their truce underfoot by barging in with a string of students on his heels, he decided to at least try and ask permission first. He’d already upended Malfoy’s life enough as it was; he could practise a bit of decorum on the odd occasion.

But where he had thought Malfoy might put his foot down, or protest that it was bad enough he’d been roped into running it with Harry, he wasn’t going to stand by and let the Room be overrun—he was pleased to learn Malfoy actually was pretty all right with the idea. Harry had been momentarily touched, elated Malfoy seemed to be thinking proactively and had been inspired to grab this opportunity by the horns, as it were, until Malfoy had ruined the moment with a snippy, “Well I’m not going to embarrass myself taking part in this circus act in _public_, now am I? I’d never be able to live it down. No, we will _absolutely_ be keeping any and all subsequent interactions between myself and your simpering sycophants behind closed doors, if there must be any at all.”

The next order of business, it was decided, would be to name the club properly. Malfoy had most unhelpfully reminded Harry of several of his more mortifying drunken suggestions, the worst of which he was quite certain had to be H.A.R.R.Y. He resolved then and there to never let a drop of alcohol pass his lips again. Convinced he was _not_ the person to name their new organisation—nor was Malfoy, after he started humming a soft little tune that he informed Harry was the ‘official H.A.R.R.Y. anthem’—he took the matter to those he’d come to consider the ‘founding members’. 

Ron’s suggestions weren’t much more promising than Harry’s Firewhisky-inspired names had been—though that didn’t stop him from continuing to insistently refer to the club as the DADADA (or ‘Defence Against the Dark Arts and Diverse Activities’), hoping it would catch on. Parvati suggested the Life Skills Club, while Parkinson suggested the How Not To Die Skills Club, and Luna—bless her—concluded it ought to be named precisely what it was: a Circle of Friends. 

In the end, they’d gone with Neville’s rather bland but very apt suggestion of ‘Defence Alliance’, mostly because it not only perfectly encapsulated the point of the club, they wouldn’t have to wean themselves from calling it the ‘DA’ either. 

Malfoy, for his part, seemed almost disappointed they hadn’t gone with the horrible acronym. “It just doesn’t _feel_ like one of your insipid do-good ventures now,” he sighed morosely, slumped across his acid-green divan while Harry decorated the Room in Conjured mats and cushions in preparation for their upcoming meetings.

Said meetings were held on Saturdays, working around members’ Quidditch practice schedules and N.E.W.T. study sessions and print deadlines as needed. They managed a decent-sized group every week, once they found their rhythm, and it wasn’t the same faces every time either, which made Harry irrationally happy. This was _better_ than the old DA, he thought, if only because there was so much diversity now. It wasn’t just Gryffindors and a few odd Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws. There were _five_ whole Slytherins—five!—and a gaggle of lower-year Ravenclaw girls who followed Luna around like she hung the moon, giving the charming impression of a huddle of ducklings toddling after their mother and sitting at strict attention as she led them through the motions of Charms and Jinxes she herself had mastered years back. 

Malfoy rose to the occasion of being Harry’s assistant-slash-partner with remarkable poise, and Harry felt pride oozing from his every pore when he caught Malfoy leaning in close to the younger students, intent grey eyes fixed on them as if they were the only ones in the world who mattered at the moment. Sure, those first couple of meetings he paid an undue degree of attention to the few Slytherins who slunk into the Room, expressions hunted and mistrustful, but he never turned down a request for assistance, no matter the colour of a student’s tie. Curiously, it was the younglings who were usually the first to seek him out for advice or a demonstration, and Harry initially put it down to them not having been around Hogwarts when Malfoy had been at his very worst, but after sneaking peeks for himself now and again, Harry thought it might just be that Malfoy had that air about him. The kind that made you sit up and take notice. 

It was how he held himself—not the Pureblood arsery, but something more innate. Malfoy would’ve probably said, “Oh that’ll be the Black blood in me,” or something equally priggish, but it was there, all the same, ineffable and intriguing. Harry thought he understood a bit what Luna meant when she’d told Harry he had a quality to him that made people want to rally around him and give him their loyalty. 

Yet professional as he comported himself in DA meetings, once the last of the ‘interlopers’ had left, Malfoy would rearrange the trappings of the Room back to how he preferred—complete with Harry’s comfy armchair-sofa and an overabundance of tables and desks—until the space was once more ‘his’. Harry didn’t mind it; it was easy enough to ask the Room to Conjure a space ‘for DA meetings’, now they’d established it, and once all the others had returned to their Common Rooms and it was just Harry and Malfoy again, there was a kind of comfort in having the Room again all to themselves.

But there was no more lazing about to be had in the Room, even when it was filled with fancy furniture and the flagstones littered with shag rugs and plump cushions and floor pillows. Their time together now was punctuated by DA lesson preparations in addition to the usual bouts of studying and private training. 

And necessarily, the ‘lesson planning’ was quite hands-on. Their sparring in preparation for the upcoming duelling module they were planning had nearly brought one of the Room’s chandeliers crashing down on their heads. It had only been Malfoy’s quickly snapped _Protego Duo!_—brilliantly rendered, at last—that had spared Harry from his first trip to the Hospital Wing in ages, and when the shield had bloomed, bright and blue overhead, the ironwork of the chandelier ricocheting harmlessly off the magical barrier to clang to the ground, Malfoy had positively _beamed_ with pride in himself. 

Not the sort of smug, self-aggrandising as had driven Harry mad back in school. No, almost…shocked, really, at his own thoughtless display of heroism. It had been the first moment Malfoy had been called to put the spellwork he’d been practising into action, and he’d done so not for a grade in class or to pass an exam, but to save Harry Potter’s life.

“…Thanks…” Harry had breathed, staring up at Malfoy from where he’d stumbled to the ground after dodging the _Expulso_ of Malfoy’s that had flown wild and snapped the chain holding the chandelier in place. 

Malfoy had stared at his own wand in wonder for a long moment before his gaze had tracked over to meet Harry’s. “…No wonder you do that so often. Quite the thrill.”

Harry had only swallowed, mouth gone dry. “…Rethinking joining the Auror Force, are we?”

And that had broken the spell, as Malfoy had harshly cackled, “Not on your life,” flicked his wand to Vanish the remains of the chandelier—already replaced by the Room with a new one overhead—and resumed his opening duelling stance. “Back on your mark, Potter. We go again.”

Hallowe’en came and went, the feast a true treat for Harry, who had not had occasion to really _enjoy_ such a meal at Hogwarts in years. The Remembrance banquets held annually were a necessarily sombre affair, and while the food might have been sumptuous, Harry had always been too preoccupied with memory and regret to ever appreciate the spread. 

But with the arrival of November, the atmosphere throughout the castle changed in an instant, with old House rivalries rekindling even amongst DA members, who were not above engaging in spirited debate concerning the only topic really _worth_ debating these days: Quidditch. 

Gryffindor and Slytherin would be opening the intramural season facing off in their upcoming game, and Harry meant to attend. Eighth Years weren’t allowed to participate in the game, of course, as Harry had been rudely reminded the very first day he’d arrived in this timeline, but then, he hadn’t played the first time around either, so he didn’t suppose it mattered all that much. He got his flying in enough with Malfoy these days, after all, though he couldn’t deny a part of him missed the windburn from a heady dive and the ache in his thighs that came from crouching on a broom for two hours straight, searching for that glint of gold and trying to tune out the roar of the crowd. 

But his second time around, Harry was going to _enjoy_ the Quidditch season, even if he couldn’t participate himself—not least of all because it was a real treat to watch Ginny fly, even if she wouldn’t be nearly as polished now as she’d shine up in a few seasons’ time. Harpies tickets were tough to come by these days, even for the ‘famous Harry Potter’, so he’d snag his glimpses while he could, knowing the heights to which Ginny would soar in the coming years.

And he’d snag them with Malfoy at his side, because a furtive drink in a corner booth at the Hog’s Head did not, Harry maintained, count as socialising, and while the Gryffindors seemed to be coming around on Malfoy, the Slytherins hadn’t _quite_ come around on Harry yet, and he meant to change that. 

“Absolutely not,” Malfoy laughed, a gruff little derisive thing that told Harry he was mad for even _suggesting_ they attend the weekend match. “And you aren’t either.”

“I’m—not?”

“No,” Malfoy said, Vanishing the remains of Harry’s latest failed Potions experiment—an attempt at Amortentia that had smelled of bird shit, burnt coffee, and an overwhelmingly cloying floral aroma that refused to leave his nasal passages. “You’re going to be working on brewing a potion that _doesn’t_ smell like a wet Crup sicked up an aubergine tartlet and then rolled about in a pile of sweat-soaked Quidditch rags.” 

Harry wrinkled his nose. “I thought it was more like…someone stuffed musty potpourri up a peacock’s arse and then tried to drown it in a pot of week-old breakroom coffee.” Either way, it had _not_ been the enticing aroma he’d brewed back in Sixth Year with the Prince’s help—though Harry suspected that, after seven years, whatever the potion’s vapours were meant to smell like for him had substantially changed. “But—come on, that can wait! It’s Gryffindor versus Slytherin, you can’t tell me you don’t want to see a good trouncing.”

Malfoy gave him a look. “Diplomatic phrasing there, Potter.”

“You’ll make a Slytherin of me yet.” Harry hopped up onto the now-empty benchtop, letting his legs swing. “You came out to Hogsmeade, and nothing terrible happened.”

“_Nothing terrible_? What do you call this ridiculous ‘DA’ business I’ve been roped into? It’s like herding Kneazles with the First Years!”

“But you’re good at it. Maybe there’s a Kneazle Herding department at the Ministry I can get you an interview with…” Malfoy had the Room Conjure a new cauldron, then chucked it at Harry’s head. Harry deflected it with a thoughtless flick of his wand. “Seriously—it’s Quidditch. _Quidditch_, Malfoy. Do you want to know when the last time I went to a Quidditch game was?” Malfoy dismissed him with a roll of his eyes, making for his green divan to start on the Transfiguration reading Harry had set him. Malfoy understandably was wary of any spells involving human transfiguration, but the N.E.W.T. examiners weren’t going to give him a pass just because he’d been turned into a ferret once in Fourth Year. Harry hopped off the bench, following him. “Six months back: at a charity celebrity game hosted by the War Orphans Commission. The other Seeker was Martin Higgenlooper who, I was told, was the head of the Invisibility Task Force, though I think the Commission might’ve just made him up to explain why it looked like I was out there searching for the Snitch all on my own.” He slumped over the back of Malfoy’s divan. “So you see, I’m desperate for some decent sportsmanship.”

“Fine. Then _you_ go,” Malfoy huffed, reaching for _A Guide to Advanced Transfiguration_ and settling in against the deep cushions. “Have a fantastic time. Enjoy your sportsmanship and trouncing.”

Harry decided to try a different tack. “I’ll join you in the Slytherin stands, then, how’s that?”

Malfoy snapped upright, sending his Transfiguration text flying. “In what way is that meant to _encourage_ me to go? The rest of the House would skin me alive if they saw me out and about, fraternising with the likes of _you_.”

Harry wondered if ‘the likes of you’ referred to Gryffindors in general, or Harry Potter specifically. “C’mon, it won’t be that bad. It’s not as if students from other Houses aren’t allowed in your stands, besides. Parvati’ll be there as well—”

“Only because Pansy lives to make a spectacle of herself, and the surest way to do _that_ is to show up to an event with a Gryffindor on your arm.” Malfoy brushed his hair back from his face, settling back in and Summoning his textbook. “I’d much rather keep a low profile.”

“I can be low-profile,” Harry said, and Malfoy released a bark of laughter so loud it actually _echoed_.

“Bull_shit_ you can.”

“I can. I spent eleven whole years trying to be as unobtrusive as possible. I got quite good at it.”

Malfoy raised his text to block Harry’s face from where he now had his entire upper body leaning over the back of the divan. “Stupid Muggles being too thick to realise who you were and _what_ you were does not mean you were in any way ‘unobtrusive.’ Only unappreciated.”

Harry decided to let the insult (he was pretty sure it was an insult) slide; if they got into a serious row here, he’d never convince Malfoy to come watch Quidditch. He used the tip of his wand to push the book down, forcing Malfoy’s eye to meet his. “My Glamours are pretty good. And I cast a mean Notice-me-not.” What Malfoy didn’t know about Harry’s difficulty disguising anything below the knee wouldn’t hurt him.

Malfoy ran his tongue over his teeth, clucking in frustration. “…I don’t want to go, Potter.”

“Do you really not want to go, or is this just another, ‘I don’t want my wand back, shove it up your arse,’ kind of thing, where you really _do_ want to go, you’re just scared of the consequences, even though there won’t be any consequences, because you’re too much inside your own head about everything?”

Malfoy’s jaw hardened. “I’m not _scared_—”

“Good. You shouldn’t be. It’s a _Quidditch match_, Malfoy. Not a masque ball. No one’s going to give a shit if you sit in the stands next to me or Ron or McGonagall herself.” Malfoy gave him a look, and Harry nodded. “All right, fine, they might look askance at McGonagall. But fuck ‘em; they shouldn’t get to dictate how you live your life.” He drew himself up, slipping his wand into his sleeve. “I’m going to the game. And I’m gonna cheer from the Slytherin stands, with or without you.”

In the end, it was ‘with him’, and Harry had to remind himself on multiple occasions, as they made their way down to the pitch carried along by the swell of students with the same destination, that he needed to not grin so much, as Malfoy found it very off-putting and would get pissy, thinking Harry was being superior and not just pleased he’d finally agreed to go. He was not entirely successful, though, and even when he managed to keep his face straight, Malfoy still somehow found other things to be narked off about.

“Take that _ridiculous_ thing off your head,” Malfoy hissed as they approached the arch marking the entrance to the staircase leading up into the Slytherin stands. Green and silver garland had been strung about the arch, and a serpent motif carved into the wood greeted all who passed under with bared fangs and swipes of its whiplash tail.

“Why?” Harry reached up, patting the side of his hat to be sure it stayed in place. “Luna worked hard to make this for me. It’d be rude not to wear it, after all the effort she put in.”

“Because it’s mortifying enough being seen with you in public _without_ you prancing about with a giant stuffed snake on your head!”

“You know, at the Muggle Royal Ascot, it’s considered a fashion statement to show up wearing a fancy headpiece.”

“Well this isn’t the Arsecot, now is it?”

“Ascot—”

“Take it _off_. Or I’ll—” Malfoy palmed his hamstrung Ministry wand, white-knuckled in frustration. “Or I’ll march back into that castle this very instant.”

“You’d never make it back in this crowd. Plus everyone’s seen you now—wouldn’t want them to think you were running scared, would you?” Harry tugged on the tail of his snake hat, and it released a menacing hiss that earned him strange looks from everyone in the immediate vicinity, spreading out to give Harry and Malfoy as wide a berth as possible. “Besides, I figure if I’m going to be watching from the Slytherin stands, I ought to do the polite thing and show a bit of support, right? Sportsmanship and all that.”

They finally made it up the several flights of stairs into the open air of the stands at height, and Parvati Patil waved them down from where she’d hoarded benchspace enough to accommodate Harry and Malfoy along with Parkinson, Zabini, and several of the lower-year Slytherins who’d been participating in DA meetings. “Fancy seeing you here,” Parvati said, brows waggling suggestively, and Harry tugged on his snake hat’s tail again, making it hiss at her in threat.

Parkinson recoiled, hands going to Parvati’s shoulders to use her as a shield. “Good gad, Potter, that thing is hideous…” She curled her lip, slanting her eyes in Malfoy’s direction. “You let him out of the castle looking like that? And into _our_ stands?”

“Is it not ‘Bring Your Gryffindor to the Quidditch Game’ day? I only assumed.” Malfoy shouldered past Harry, plopping himself down next to Zabini and trying to tug the collar of his robes up to hide his head. “And _you_ try telling Potter to do anything he doesn’t want to. He insisted on looking like a gormless nitwit, so I magnanimously allowed him to do so.”

Harry settled himself next to Malfoy, waving his greetings to Zabini and the others and receiving polite nods and wary expressions of mistrust in return. Clearly no one here had an appreciation for Luna’s eccentric taste in charmwork, and that was their loss.

“See?” Harry said. “They haven’t strung you up yet.”

“Perhaps Lovegood’s hat is keeping them at bay.”

“Then lucky I insisted on looking like a gormless nitwit, wasn’t it?” Harry nudged Parvati, who was sitting just on the riser below them, with a toe to her shoulder. “Reckon we’ll have a good game today?”

She gave him a bright smile of white teeth. “Won’t be _that_ good, not without you Seeking.”

Parkinson scoffed next to her. “Please. Name a Quidditch season in recent memory that wasn’t upended in some manner or another by the Boy Saviour. Plus he let the matches drag on for _far_ too long. At least if Draco were Seeking, this all might be over quickly and we could get out of this blasted cold and back into the castle.”

“Careful Pansy,” Malfoy drawled from hidden within his hiked-up robes. “That was almost a compliment.”

Parvati drew her wand, lips pursed in thoughtful concern. “Shall I cast a Warming Charm?”

“No, you _shan’t_,” Parkinson returned mockingly. “Keep your wand to yourself.”

“Never thought I’d hear that from _you_,” Malfoy snickered, and Parkinson gave him a winning smile before Conjuring a bluebell flame and letting it have at the hem of Malfoy’s robes.

By the time they managed to put out the flames and restore Malfoy’s singed clothing, the game was well underway. It was becoming rapidly clear, though, that neither team was in any way prepared for a proper match, and while Ginny was surely doing her level best with what she’d been given, no one could expect miracles. 

“Ugh, girl Weasley is _wasted_ on that team…” Malfoy marvelled grimly. “The Beaters are hitting the Bludgers at _each other_ half the time, and ten of Slytherin’s points came from one of your own Chasers sending the Quaffle through the wrong set of hoops.”

He wasn’t wrong, and Harry sorely hoped this wasn’t the match the Harpies’ scout was watching. But Slytherin wasn’t much better off—their Seeker seemed to be nodding off, snapping out of his slumbering stupor only when his broom pitched worryingly and he nearly slid off. Their Keeper was a broad-shouldered burly witch who could have easily started on any rugby lineup, but she lacked any grace whatsoever on a broom and couldn’t kick it into gear in time to beat back the few Quaffles the Gryffindor Chasers managed to fling her way. Harry didn’t think she’d saved a single one yet the whole match.

“Well, whatever faults you may have had as Seeker, falling asleep in the middle of the match was not one of them,” Harry said, and Malfoy gave him a cutting look.

“_Whatever faults_? Name _one_.”

“You watched me too much, waiting until I found the Snitch instead of searching for it yourself.”

“I wasn’t _watching y_—and that’s _strategy_, Potter. Why would I waste my time looking for the Snitch when I could just have _you_ do it and then beat you to it?”

“So you’re lazy.” Malfoy opened his mouth to protest, and Harry added, “Your dad bought your way onto the team.”

Malfoy’s cheeks went pink, and his voice was low and dangerous when he said, “Fuck you. I didn’t _ask_ him to do that; he simply lacked any confidence whatsoever I’d make the team myself and meant to ensure he bested you through me regardless.” He pasted on a simpering grin. “Couldn’t have me dragging the family’s good name through the muck letting a _half-breed_ outshine me, now could we?”

And Harry felt a pang of guilt, because of course he knew that. Lucius Malfoy might’ve gotten his son onto the Slytherin team, but Malfoy himself had held his spot there. “…Fine. You favour your right side.”

Malfoy blinked. “…I what?”

Harry nodded to Malfoy’s right. “Given a choice, you’ll bank right over left. Makes it easy to predict your moves in the right situations, and therefore easier to cut you off. Try running some drills and forcing yourself into leftward banks. Should help break you of the habit.”

Malfoy’s features tightened, the pink in his cheeks darkening. “I don’t _favour my right_—” 

There came a bright _pop_, and both Harry and Malfoy stiffened, heads whipping around in confusion. Everything had suddenly gone silent—the din of the crowd, the whistling of the biting wind, the booming voice of the Hufflepuff commentator all blipping out.

Someone tapped Harry’s shoulder, and he whirled around—and found Zabini glaring at him. He brought a finger to his own lips, miming for Harry to be quiet, then pointed to the Quidditch pitch, where the game was still going in full force. Harry frowned. “Did he just…”

“Trap us in a _Quietus_ bubble because you couldn’t just _shut up_ and watch the very Quidditch match you forced me to attend? Yes, it seems he did.”

“_You_ were the one who told me to, quote, ‘name one’.”

Malfoy glanced back at Zabini, speaking very loudly, “And the not shutting up continues.” Zabini only gave him a bland smile, then waved him off and slipped his arm around the shoulders of an attractive Sixth-year Harry had noticed Zabini bird-dogging at most every DA meeting so far. “…I swear that man has some Succubus blood in him.”

“Aren’t Succubi usually female?”

“Incubus then, you pedantic sod.” As if Malfoy wouldn’t have made the exact same comment had Harry been the one to slip up.

“Maybe it’s the Quidditch. Nothing like a bit of rough athleticism to get the blood up, no?”

Malfoy wrinkled his nose. “I doubt much of anything’s going _up_ after watching this travesty.” He gestured with affected disdain at the pitch. “Look at them. I’m sorely tempted to charm their robes blue and yellow just to save our Houses the shame.” He held up his Ministry wand in thoughtful consideration, as if pondering whether it would actually let him cast such a spell.

Despite himself—and the poor showing of the two teams—Malfoy eventually managed to get into the game, a task aided greatly by the realisation that it was just as entertaining (if not more so) tearing the players down as cheering them on, particularly when Harry started to egg him on rather than needling him about his own shortcomings. Malfoy was, after all, the sort who blossomed when he had a captive audience, and they were still trapped within Zabini’s Charm. 

“Ten Galleons Pucey the Lesser takes a tumble before this game is over,” Malfoy said, tracking the Slytherin Seeker like a hawk.

Harry mulled over the possibility. “Does he have to actually hit the ground, or just so long as he clears the broom?”

“Hooch wouldn’t let him hit the ground—which is a shame. It’d be the most exciting thing to happen the whole match.”

“He’d learn to get a good night’s rest before a game, that’s for certain.” 

“Who’s the little blonde bullet you lot have riding that Cleansweep like it’s the latest Nimbus off the line?”

“Elowen Robins. Reckon she could Transfigure it wandlessly if she put enough thought into it?”

“She could Transfigure it into a fucking _dragon_ and it wouldn’t help.”

“Could eat the other team. No regulations against dragons on the Quidditch pitch, are there?”

“Harry Potter working out new and inventive ways to bend the rules to suit his needs—how were you not Sorted Slytherin again?”

“Just lucky, I guess. And yet I ended up in these stands all the same. Life’s funny like that.” Harry turned his head just enough to make out Malfoy from the corner of his eye. He was sat in profile, squinting out over the Quidditch pitch with his trademark sneer, and while his cutting quips rolled off his tongue with the usual snap and vinegar, they were less cruel now and more barbed and jabbing. Designed to needle and annoy with leering invitation for others to join in the dogpiling. Harry swallowed. “…You could do this too, you know.”

“Do what?” Malfoy asked, distant, then scoffed. “I’ve now accepted that the only way Pucey’s going to catch the Snitch is if it flings itself suicidal into his gaping maw in the midst of a great yawn.”

“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it,” Harry said. “And _this_. Commentate Quidditch matches. Or be a Magical Sports Correspondent. Department of Magical Games and Sports is down on Level 7, and Harold Fortenback is the Department Head. He’s Keeper on our interdepartmental Quidditch team, so I reckon I could lean on him for a favour.”

“Perhaps seven years hence…” Malfoy drawled, rolling his eyes, and he settled back on the bench with a sigh, arms folded across his chest as he raked Harry with a look of bored bemusement. “An absolutely exhilarating game unfolding before your very eyes, and all you can think about is seeing me gainfully employed. You really _are_ a middle-aged dud now.”

“I’m not middle—” Harry started, before reminding himself this was just what Malfoy did when he found himself the subject of uncomfortable attentions: tried to deflect by riling Harry up. It worked every damn time, and Harry wanted to pull his hair out in frustration. Weren’t there sayings about the sorts of people who fell for the same trick no matter how many times it was pulled on them? “Well I _have_ travelled a rather long way to save your neck, you’ll recall.”

“How can I forget, when you remind me of it at least once daily? Twice if it’s a weekend.” Malfoy pierced the _Quietus_ bubble with his wand, reaching a hand through the rend to snag Zabini’s Omnioculars while he had his back turned, still preoccupied with the Sixth Year. The roar of the game filtered through the rip, a muffled backdrop, before blipping out once more when Malfoy drew his hand back within the confines of the bubble and the hole repaired itself. He brought the Omnioculars to his eyes, twisting the objectives until he was satisfied with the focus. “Be quite serious. My commentary would be nothing but scathing take-downs of every player on the field. No one wants to listen to that. You’re currently trapped inside evidence of that very fact.”

Harry wasn’t so sure about that—once Malfoy’s barbs had been directed more indiscriminately, wielded for the pleasure of garnered attention than to inflict pain, Harry had found he rather enjoyed them. He was _not_ ‘middle-aged’ by any means, but perhaps he’d at least matured a bit, if he could find such antics amusing instead of infuriating as he might have back in Eighth Year proper. 

Still, Malfoy seemed confident in his dismissal of the proposed position, citing a lack of an audience rather than a lack of any clear path to the post in the first place. This suggested to Harry he was genuinely not interested as opposed to merely certain the door would never open for him, no matter how hard Harry pushed upon it on his behalf.

He therefore let the matter drop. He would find Malfoy the perfect position, he _would_. It just might take a bit of doing. They still had time, and Hermione would just have to sit on her insistence he take his case to the Unspeakables—or at least McGonagall—for a while longer.

In the end, despite the very best efforts of their own Chasers to undermine them and Pucey the Lesser’s sterling Seeking skills, Gryffindor managed to eke out a win, though Ginny did not seem at all thrilled with their victory as she alighted on the pitch to shake hands with the Slytherin Captain. Her pinched features said she had words aplenty to have with her players, and Harry was, for the moment, relieved he wasn’t wearing Quidditch leathers right about now.

But regardless of how wrongfully deserved, a win was a win and would undoubtedly be followed by a rousing victory party in the Gryffindor Common Room. Any lectures Ginny was gearing up to deliver would have to wait.

The Slytherin stands began to empty amid sour faces and grumbled whinging, and Harry waved his thanks to Zabini when he finally lifted his spell. “We’ll try to keep it civil next time,” Harry vowed, and Malfoy made a distressed noise.

“Good gad, you aren’t coming back here! _I’m_ not even coming back here!”

“There’s three more games, though?” Harry said. “If you’re worried we’d just row the whole time, we could at least come for Ravenclaw versus Hufflepuff. No biases there.”

“I’m not _worried_—” Malfoy started, then turned to Parkinson. “They aren’t invited back. _Either_ of them.”

“Fuck off, Draco,” Parkinson said. “Mine behaved herself.”

Draco gibbered something in return mockingly then glared at Harry. “Fine. Drag your four-poster up here for all I give a shit. I’ve better things to do with my time.”

“Like what?”

“Like figure out how to keep you out of the Room…” Malfoy slipped his bag over his shoulder and began slumping down the steps, shoulders sagging. “There’s a loophole you’re abusing, and I’m _going_ to figure out how to close it.”

“You’re just sore Slytherin lost.”

“No, I’m sore Gryffindor _won_. There’s no shame in losing—but there’s _plenty_ of shame in losing to _that_.”

Harry had no arguments. “Yeah, not our finest moment. But at least there’s still a party to look forward to.”

“Ah yes, the traditional round of self-congratulatory back-slapping by Hogwarts’ finest trained orangutans.” Malfoy gave a shudder, leaning dramatically on the banister for support. “I’m sure you’ll have a _grand_ old time.”

He probably would, at that; his Housemates certainly knew how to enjoy themselves, and there’d be plenty of call for engaging distractions after that match. “What’ll Slytherin be up to, then?”

“Probably enduring a thorough House-wide tongue lashing. On the players for that disgraceful showing, and on the other students for not Hexing the Gryffindor line-up blind.”

“Cheating’s no way to get ahead, Malfoy,” Harry tutted.

“Cheating’s a _perfect_ way to get ahead; what do _you_ call this little temporal do-over you’ve embarked upon?”

“Hey! This is a ‘second chance’! And it’s for _you_, not for me.”

“Ah, so as long as it’s altruistic, it doesn’t count as cheating.”

“Yeah—wait, no…” Harry frowned, absently tugging on the tail of his snake-head hat, which hissed menacingly at a group of First-year Slytherin girls who looked like they were seriously considering meandering over to ask Harry for his autograph. “Just—it’s not a competition, so there can’t be any _cheating_.”

“I’m under the impression you’ve violated _several_ laws, both physical and metaphysical, so I fail to see the difference.” He curled his lip when he caught sight of the hat in his peripheral vision. “And take that damn thing off. The match is over.”

“It’s keeping my ears warm, though.”

“There’s a fancy Charm for that.”

“You going to cast it for me?”

Malfoy scowled. “…Not so long as this damn wand refuses to cooperate. But I can probably manage something approaching an _Incendio_ if I concentrate hard enough.” He discreetly angled his wand to point at Harry’s hat.

Harry laid a hand against the snake’s cowl, suddenly protective, and took a step to the side in case Malfoy decided to make a go of it. “Oi, don’t take your pissy mood out on Luna’s hard work.” They began to mount the steps fronting the Entry Hall, the crowd suddenly shoving them back together, shoulder-to-shoulder, as everyone tried to press inside at once. “You ought to come up and apologise in person. I expect she’ll be at the afterparty as well.”

“_Not_ likely.”

“What? Of course Luna’ll be invited.”

Malfoy released a long, breathy huff of irritation. “Fine.”

Harry brightened. “You’ll come to the party?”

“What? Good gad, no. Fine ‘you can keep wearing your ridiculous headpiece’.”

“Stop calling it ‘ridiculous’. You’re hurting Mathilda’s feelings.” He gave another tug on the tail, and the hat hissed at Malfoy in reprimand. “If you won’t come to the party and apologise to Luna, I suggest you do so to Mathilda instead.”

“Don’t be daft.” Malfoy made to turn off for the Dungeons along with a gaggle of equally sour-faced Slytherin students, but Harry hooked a finger in his collar, nearly throttling Malfoy when Harry tugged him back into formation.

“Then I guess that means you’ll be coming to the party to deliver your ‘I’m sorry’s to Luna directly.”

Malfoy spat furiously, squirming and wriggling to weasel out of Harry’s hold. “Get your—hands—off—” And Harry did release him, but too late, and the crowd had drawn in around them once more, bearing the both of them towards the stairwell and the floors above. Malfoy gave a whine of defeat, stamping his feet on the ancient flagstones as he let himself be buffeted along by the wave of humanity. “_Dammit_! Why can’t we _fucking_ Apparate in this damned castle?!”

“_Language_,” came a voice in the crowd, the supercilious tone suggesting a Prefect of some flavour or another. 

Malfoy cast about, likely searching for the next landing at which he might make another escape attempt, and Harry bumped his shoulder. “Come on. A bit more socialising won’t kill you. If I survived spending a whole Quidditch match in the snake pit, surely you can stomach some punch and a pumpkin pasty procured from the lion’s den.”

But then Malfoy’s pinch-faced, bitter expression shifted to something more hunted—a visage Harry knew prefaced walls going up and a rowdy, ranting row that would undoubtedly leave them off speaking terms for weeks. Harry quickly sobered, dropping his voice and budging up close. “…Oi, I’m not saying you have to.”

“As if you could make me,” Malfoy hissed, jerking away from Harry, red-cheeked, into another student who shrieked as she was shoved into the stone banister. 

Fearing any further attempts to defuse the situation might result in innocent bystanders being tossed over the railing as the mass of students—largely Gryffindors and Ravenclaws now—continued their climb, Harry quickly and quietly shuttled Malfoy through the crowd at the next landing, throwing up a _Muffliato_ as they skulked in an alcove.

“Calm down, Malfoy,” Harry said, keeping his voice low even behind the safety of the charm. “It was an invite, not an _Imperius_.”

“They sound the same on your tongue,” Malfoy muttered, gaze shunted off over Harry’s shoulder at the bobbing shadows thrown by the torchlight as the mass of students continued on up to their respective Towers.

Harry had to give a little nod at that. “…Right, I can be a little pushy sometimes—”

“Order of Understatement, First Class.”

“—But _only_ when something’s important to me.”

Malfoy fixed him with a deadpan glare. “…You give me shit about the fucking _quills_ I use to draft my essays.”

And Harry thought that was entirely justified, because _really_, who needed a _cassowary feather quill_—especially when it stabbed you in the finger if you spelled a word wrong? He reached up to scrub a hand through his hair, only to butt up against Mathilda’s scaly fabric hide. “…It was an invitation, Malfoy. If you seriously don’t want to go, then tell me—_tell me_, don’t give me some pithy, snark-laced Malfoyism.”

“What the fuck is _that_ supposed to mean?”

“It means it can be pretty bloody difficult to tell if you don’t want to do something just because you like being contrary or if you don’t want to do it because you have a genuine, well-founded _reason_ for not wanting to.”

“I do not _like_ being contra—”

“You do. You _really_ do. You love it, Malfoy. Nothing in this world brings you greater pleasure than telling someone _No_.” Harry crossed his arms, daring Malfoy to deny the accusation. “It’s fascinating, really. But also _super_ annoying.”

Malfoy was definitely red with emotion now rather than exertion, and he had his hands fisted at his sides, like he was gearing up to take a swing at Harry. “I’ve said _Yes_ to all your stupid, insipid little demands today, and you have the _gall_ to accuse me of being ‘difficult’?” He waved at Harry’s head and the hat still firmly sat atop it. “That’s fucking _rich_ coming from the man who told me _No_ every time I asked him not to be _atrociously _mortifying in public, amongst my _peers_.”

Mathilda gave a soft warning hiss quite without Harry’s permission, and he stroked her tail soothingly. “You haven’t said _Yes _to _all_ of them,” he reminded, only because he had nothing really to say in his defence. Malfoy _had_ given in, in the end, to most everything Harry had asked of him, but while Harry thought he’d enjoyed the match despite himself, Malfoy had still soundly dismissed any notion of attending other games as the season progressed. It wasn’t just inside the confines of the Room; Malfoy seemed intent to self-flagellate whenever and wherever he could, denying himself permission to derive any manner of joy from life. “It really was just an invitation,” Harry said, softer now. “I thought you might like it—we won’t be half as rowdy as usual, not after that pitiful performance, and you’ve already made inroads with those of us who might’ve given you a hard time had you shown up in our Common Room unannounced before.” Harry then patted his pocket, where he’d stowed his wand. “Plus, like I told you: my Glamours are pretty good. If you wanted, I could turn you into Ron’s third cousin twice-removed in two seconds flat, no sweat.”

Malfoy recoiled violently, warding him back with his wand raised in threat, and Harry surmised his boasting had not quite instilled the confidence he’d meant it to. “Turn one hair on my head red and I’ll find a way to cast an Unforgivable with this wand, truly I will.”

“Be a shame for you to wind up in Azkaban all the same just because you didn’t agree with my artistic vision.”

“Be a shame for you to have survived a duel with the Dark Lord only to succumb to a Curse cast by a teenager with a toddler’s wand.”

“You’re right. Being chucked over the side of the staircase and plummeting to my doom would read a _lot_ better in the textbooks.”

“I’ll bear that in mind.” Malfoy kept his eye firmly fixed on Harry this time, jaw tightening. “…You really want me to go to this little soiree with you.”

Harry blinked, brows knitting spastically. “…Did you think I just invited you on a lark? To see what you’d say and then rescind?” He thought he’d been quite genuine in his interactions, but perhaps two months was still not time enough to reassure Malfoy that the Harry Potter he’d been engaging with these many weeks now was one who could be trusted—at least as far as Malfoy could throw him, and then perhaps a few feet more.

“I don’t know _why_ you asked me. I don’t know why you do half the things you do, actually.”

“…Well, because I _want_ to. Obviously.”

“Yes, but _why_?” Malfoy sighed, holstering his wand and running a hand through his hair to smooth it back from his face. He crossed his arms over his chest, the gesture making him seem all of his eighteen years, which was a refreshing contrast to the hollow shell Harry had been faced with in Azkaban.

“Because,” Harry said, simply. “Because—it’s good for you. Expanding your circle of support beyond House boundaries—you’ll need that, once those Houses are gone.”

Malfoy scoffed, tossing his head. “And how _exactly_ is hobnobbing with your merry band of misfits after a Quidditch game going to keep me from getting my soul sucked out seven years hence? This is hardly a DA meeting.”

And he had something of a point—but he was also missing the bigger one. “There’s more to something being ‘good for you’ than whether or not it keeps you out of Azkaban, you know.”

“Ah, so you mean to try and save my soul in the _other_ sense, then? ‘Reformed a Death Eater’ does look good on the CV, even if it comes right after ‘Brought down a Dark Lord.’”

“I’m not trying to reform you—”

“Excellent. Because it won’t work.”

“It _would _work. If you needed it. But you don’t. Which is kind of the point.”

Malfoy lifted a brow, almost as if offended. “You think I don’t need reformation?”

“No. I think you need…reorientation.” Malfoy narrowed his eyes at Harry. “I think you ought to mingle with other Houses, like we did at Hogsmeade, not because it’ll keep you out of Azkaban—though it will—but because I genuinely think you’ll like them, if you give them half a chance. And I think they’ll like you.”

Malfoy laughed, dry as a desert. “They don’t like me. And my barging into their Common Room certainly won’t help matters.”

“_I_ like you,” Harry said, astonished how easily it came, and Malfoy rolled his eyes. “And I like to think I’m a decent judge of what my friends might like as well, after living cheek-to-jowl with them for the better part of eight years. They’re Gryffindors—”

“Lovegood’s a Ravenclaw, or so you’ve banged on about endlessly.”

“—so they’d give you a decent chance just for having the nerve to show up in the first place.” Harry stepped forward into Malfoy’s space—and Malfoy responded by plastering himself against the wall of the alcove, expression one of wary confusion. “You’re not quite the selfish prick you crack yourself up to be, you know.”

“You take that back.” Malfoy’s voice was low with threat.

Harry held up his right hand, though he doubted Malfoy could make out the scars in the low light. “Mm, nope. I must not tell lies.” He allowed a small little smile. “It won’t ruin whatever reputation you’re attempting to cultivate, letting others inside your walls. And even if it does, maybe that reputation wasn’t worth building to begin with.”

“I’m a Malfoy; all I’ve _got_ is reputation.”

“Then you can either spend your days scrambling to keep it in mint condition—or let yourself be around people who don’t give a fig what your name is, so long as you’ve brought good booze, or at least good gossip. One’s a hell of a lot more fun than the other.”

Malfoy let his head settle back against the alcove wall, chin jutted. “…So I’m to dispense with everything that’s made me _me_, then? Toss aside the man I was raised to be—the good along with the bad—so I can sink to you and your lot’s level and enjoy a bit of ‘fun’?” He wrinkled his nose, sneering. “Certainly sounds like _reformation_ to me.”

Harry eased back, and the tension that had threaded through Malfoy’s shoulders softened a tick. “You’re more than your walls and your reputation, whatever you may think. I’ve seen you at your worst, after all—when you had neither. So I ought to know.” Harry shrugged. “I’m not going to force you to come.”

“I don’t remember coming up here _willingly_.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Fine, I’m not going to force you to come any farther. But…just know that you could. And it’d be weird, and uncomfortable, I won’t lie—but only at first. And probably not the second time, or the third, if you dropped by again. It’d be like ripping off a plaster—a moment’s pain, quickly forgotten.”

Malfoy went whiter than usual. “I haven’t the faintest notion what a ‘plaster’ is but it sounds truly barbaric and decidedly _not_ for me.”

Harry sagged—but that was what he got, he supposed, using Muggle turns of phrase. “Fair enough. But you _would_ have fun.”

“If today’s excursion was your idea of fun, then _that’s _decidedly not for me as well.”

“I’m pretty confident I could show you a better time than sitting outside freezing our balls off watching a mid-air train wreck unfold before our very eyes.”

Malfoy’s lips twitched, like he was trying not to be terribly amused, and he sighed. “…Am I free to go now, Auror Potter?”

Harry eased to the side, one arm outstretched. “On your way, Citizen Malfoy.”

Malfoy gave a soft _hmph_, jostling Harry’s shoulder as he exited the alcove, and Harry turned to follow him back to the stairway, the post-Quidditch horde having now dispersed and leaving them free to part ways at the landing without worry of being trampled underfoot. 

But just as Harry braced a foot on the bottommost step, steeling himself for the final few flights’ climb to Gryffindor Tower, Malfoy cleared his throat softly from behind, announcing, “I really _don’t _like it, you know.”

Harry let his head fall back, closing his eyes and sighing dramatically. “Would you _leave off_ with the hat? I solemnly swear to burn it and tell Luna a Blast-ended Skrewt tried to mate with it if it’ll get you off my case.”

Malfoy released an indignant huff, and Harry angled his head to peek over his shoulder—to find Malfoy still stood on the landing, staring up at Harry and looking thoroughly put-out. “Not the _hat _you imbe—well yes, the hat, of course—but that’s not—” He took a breath, lips pursed, then tried again, a strained sort of calm in his voice. “I _don’t_ like being contrary.”

Harry lifted a brow, dubious. “…You know you’re kind of still being contrary, when you say that.” Malfoy cut him a foul look, and Harry turned around to face him proper, shoulders slumped, and lounged against the banister. “And if that’s the case, say ‘yes’ sometime.” It was hard to take a bloke seriously, saying things like that, when so often he seemed to find even the act of _breathing_ distasteful.

“Find something I’d like to say ‘yes’ _to_.”

Harry mulled this over. “…All right, then. I will.” He had his doubts Malfoy really _would_ say yes, no matter the invitation, but he’d always enjoyed a challenge.

Malfoy nodded, satisfied, then gave a little half-hearted salute. “Enjoy your carousing.”

“That’s the idea.” Malfoy or no, he _was_ going to enjoy his first post-Quidditch to-do in seven years. Lately, the rowdiest party he’d had the pleasure of attending had been a breakroom retirement party for Milton Ives, who had finally been convinced by Robards to hang up his Auror robes at the ripe old age of 172. It’d been for the best, really; his final act on the force had been to cite a Diagon Alley lamppost for loitering. “I’ll send Luna your regrets and let her know you’ll catch her up next DA meeting to apologise for your slights against Mathilda.” 

“I’ll apologise,” Malfoy said, and Harry fairly swooned—was this the famed ‘non-contrary Malfoy’ he’d heard tale of? “On one condition.”

Well that figured. “Hm. And what’s that?”

Malfoy gestured to Harry’s hat, lip delicately curled into a sneer. “You wear _that_ the rest of the evening, all through your merry-making and revelry and rollicking good times.”

Harry frowned, touching Mathilda’s tail reflexively. “…I was gonna.”

“You were _not_,” Malfoy accused with a nasty little laugh. “You were going to wait until I’d disappeared, and then you were going to remove it and Vanish it into the aether or let the school owls use it for nesting material or chuck it into the fireplace to warm up what must be a dreadfully drafty tower. Because you know as well as I that it’s hideous, and you wouldn’t want to be caught dead wearing it amongst your peers, big game though you may talk.”

“That’s _bullshit_.” It was not bullshit.

“Mm, indeed? Then it shouldn’t interfere with your merriment, should it?” Malfoy beamed up at him. “If you think you know your Housemates so well and how they will and won’t react to being presented with fresh material ripe for the piss-taking, then see how they appreciate Lovegood’s handiwork. Get through the evening without being absolutely ripped to shreds, and I’ll consider it evidence that I simply am incapable of seeing the genius in Loony’s craft and make every amend possible.” He turned and continued down the stairs at a jaunt, offering a flippant backwards wave. “I’ll petition Granger for a full report at the next DA meeting. Good evening.”

“Hope you fall down the stairs and break your neck,” Harry called, but Malfoy was already a flight and a half down, and Harry’s bitter threats bounced harmlessly off the stonework. “…Bugger,” he muttered to himself, and Mathilda hissed what he was going to assume was her agreement.

Mathilda was lovely, really she was—both Mathildas—but…well, it wasn’t half as fun sporting Luna’s hat when Malfoy and his delicate sensibilities weren’t around to be offended. Without the right sort of audience—the kind who huffed and puffed and stamped their polished loafers in a childish tantrum—it was just a little silly, wearing such an ostentatious headpiece. Seamus, he was confident, would run riot, and between him and Ron and maybe even Parvati, who was steadily turning traitor to her House, there’d be sniggering comments waiting for him in every conversational lull from now ‘til Christmas.

But a deal was a deal, he supposed, and wanting very much to see Malfoy trying to muster up a genuine apology to Luna for his slights against what was, objectively, a fantastic piece of charmwork, Harry began tromping up the stairs to Gryffindor Tower. Perhaps, if he walked slowly enough, the Seventh and Eighth Years might be too far into their smuggled cups to notice he had a giant snake sat upon his noggin.

Alas, no such luck, and no sooner had he slipped through the Fat Lady’s portrait and poked his head into the Common Room than there was a raucous, “Oh my _god_, look what Potter’s wearing!” from some corner, and then it was off to the races.

Seamus did not disappoint—nor did Dean, only too happy to egg Seamus on. Neville did his level best to muster a compliment, but he quickly lost interest in defending Harry once Hannah showed up and exchanged his empty cup for a fresh one from the tap. Luna was, of course, delighted Harry’s hat was the talk of the party, convinced that any untoward remarks were only because others were sore they hadn’t so fine a hat of their own to wear in support of their favourite Quidditch team. “I think I’ll Charm up a few more prototypes and then consider mass production. They could be Owl-ordered through _The Quibbler_!” Harry excused himself right as she was pondering the logistics of a Cannons-inspired hat topped with an actual cannon firing off live volleys.

“So what was the bet?”

Harry looked up from his chair—not nearly as plushly upholstered or overstuffed as his armchair in the Room—and brushed Mathilda’s tail away from where it hung in his line of vision to see Ron, draped over the high wingback and holding out a mug for Harry. He took it with a grateful nod, sipping carefully: bless Ron, it was just ginger-spiced cocoa. “What bet?”

“Whatever bet you made with…I’m going to assume Malfoy? That you lost and now has you wearing that ridiculous thing.”

“I didn’t lose a bet,” Harry protested around another sip, swallowing.

“Uh huh.”

“…We’re in the process of it.”

Ron nodded. “There you go.” When Harry neglected to elaborate, Ron sighed. “…I know you don’t need me telling you this…”

“Oh not you _too_—” Harry started, but Ron held up a finger to still him, drawing an ottoman over from another chair and settling down. 

“Relax; Hermione’s tutoring a few of her Runes classmates, and I’m certainly not here to lecture you in her place.”

“…Good, ‘cause she’s much better at it than you’d be.”

“You don’t think I know that?” he grinned, then sobered a bit, sniffing. “Just—you sure you know what you’re doing? With…with Malfoy?”

Harry gave him a look. The way Ron was tip-toeing around the subject, it begged the question of what _he_ thought Harry was doing with Malfoy. “I’m working on it. It’s…progressing. I won’t really know if it’s made any difference until I’m in no position to help anymore, now will I? So—” He nodded to himself. “I’ve got to make sure I do whatever I can _while_ I can. He deserves a second chance, I really do think so.”

Ron ran a tongue over his teeth, smacking in thought. “…I gotta tell you, mate, I don’t get it.”

“No,” Harry sighed, “I don’t expect you would—and I don’t blame you.”

“I mean, you do _know_ what a right prick he’s been, yeah? What a right prick he _is_?”

“You aren’t telling me anything I’m not well aware of.”

Ron nodded. “…And still?”

“And still.” Harry wasn’t entirely sure they were talking about the same thing, but to clarify matters would, well, _clarify_ matters, and he was content to muddle around in the dark a bit longer, if Ron was all right with it as well. “It’s a—saving people thing, you know? Like Hermione said. I’ve just—I’ve gotta do this. I’m Harry Potter.”

“Yeah, and he’s Draco Malfoy,” Ron mumbled into his own drink, sipping with a wince. “…You’re not gonna start inviting him ‘round here, are you? Because _that_ might be a bridge too far.”

“Oh, god, no—” Harry held his hands up, nearly sloshing cocoa all over his front. “Never. Wouldn’t dream of it. He’s got his deal, and we’ve got ours, and never the twain shall meet and all that.” _Fuck_. He couldn’t catch a break.

“Good,” Ron said with a relieved smile, shaking his head. “‘Cause I half-expected you to saunter in arm-in-arm earlier, and let me tell you…” He patted his stomach. “Not good for the digestion, that.”

“You’re doing all right with him in the DA meetings, though.”

Ron shrugged. “Yeah, but, then I can give him a wide berth, can’t I? Leave him to his own kind, or trust you to make sure he keeps a civil tongue in his head. Not so different from Potions, in that case.” He smirked to himself, knocking back the last of his drink. “Our instructor even plays favourites with him, like Snape did. So a lot like Potions there, too.”

“I don’t play _favourites_—” Harry started, offence flushing his cheeks, and he must have raised his voice, for several heads turned their way, and he waved them away with a weak smile. Mathilda’s tail lashed nervously, and he gave his headpiece a soothing pat.

“Eh, but you _do_.” Ron wrinkled his nose. “Parading him around, like your pet project.”

“Now you sound like him…” Harry muttered, sinking down into the chair. He placed his mug on a side table, then wiped a hand over his face. “I’m just—trying to…I dunno, give people a chance to see a different side to him.”

“Hate to break it to you, mate, but _all_ his sides are ‘nasty, spoilt bellend’.”

“No they—okay, then maybe to see underneath the surface, how’s that fit?”

“You can package him up pretty as you please, Harry, but…” Ron shook his head. “I just don’t see it.”

Harry felt a headache coming on, rubbing at his eyes. “…Well it doesn’t help he doesn’t _want_ you to see it. He thinks—” Harry scoffed. “He thinks even the slightest of attitude adjustments, the kind that might let people see he’s worth two Knuts and stick up for him should he ever need anyone to do so, will ruin him in society’s eyes.”

Ron’s lips were pinched into a thin line. “I told you: He probably doesn’t think life’s worth living without his reputation. What’s the point of being alive if everyone wishes you were dead?” And indeed, Malfoy had said very much the same thing, not an hour earlier. Ron gave a rough little laugh, half to himself. “I’m surprised he’s letting you near as you’ve gotten at all.”

Harry was too, in all honesty. There’d been a stretch there where he hadn’t been entirely certain Malfoy _wouldn’t_ just roll over and accept his fate, rather than duck his head to Harry. “Maybe he just assumes my opinion of him can’t get any lower. What’s he got to lose, in that case?”

“Maybe,” Ron allowed, though he didn’t sound all that convinced. “Or maybe he’s trying to impress you.”

Harry wondered if Ron had spiked their drinks. He made an absurd face at the insinuation. “Why would he be trying to _impress_ me? You said yourself he’s a spoilt bellend—”

“You forgot the ‘nasty’ part.”

“—Nasty, spoilt bellend. If anything, he’s only humouring me.” It was a dark thought that followed Harry around, like one of Luna’s Nargles: that Malfoy was simply playing him, letting Harry get his jollies from another charity case rescued from certain doom until he fucked off back to the future and left Malfoy to run himself into the ground as he pleased. “He’s not trying to impress me,” he said, with what he hoped was more conviction. “He’s trying to _save himself_.”

“Well,” Ron said. “Would that impress you?”

And Harry had nothing for that, nothing at all.

Ron didn’t seem to expect an answer, though, and they spent another twenty minutes in companionable silence while the merriment around them continued apace.

_“You’re probably the last person on earth he wants to lose face in front of,”_ Hermione had said, and he’d thought it a sort of _pride_ thing. Malfoy getting it into his head that he’d been somehow one-upped by Harry, and hating it. And Harry still did think that was what it was—not least of all because the alternative was _ludicrous_. Malfoy tolerated him at best. Humouring Harry, like he’d told Ron. He was scheming and self-serving and mistrustful and all those Slytherin traits Harry despised, and _that_ was why he was letting Harry bend over backwards to help him: because his will to live without his pride intact had finally outstripped his will to die with it. Not because he thought it might make Harry think better of him—

Even if it would. Even though it _did_. Even though Harry got a little tickle in his chest, a twisting in his innards whenever Malfoy managed a new spell he’d been going at for hours or corrected a First Year’s stance in quiet, stern tones or reminded Harry with a most contrary sniff that he was _not_ purposefully contrary, thank-you-very-much, and would be pleased to prove as such at the next available opportunity.

Malfoy wasn’t trying to impress Harry—he was just…just being Malfoy. 

And if any impressing happened along the way, well that was just the natural order of things, wasn’t it?

Because fuck, Harry _was_ impressed. Daily, he found himself utterly smitten by the progress Malfoy had made in a mere eight weeks, and eager—perhaps overeager—to engineer situations in which others might enjoy the same sentiment. And what was the harm in that? It could only boost Malfoy’s bruised pride, as Harry saw it, and pride engendered confidence engendered a Malfoy who was once more master of his own fate and would not allow himself to be so easily manipulated, dragged down, embroiled in matters in which he had no interest or business. 

This Malfoy was a fighter, and so what if Harry liked it? Maybe the other one—the older one—could have been as well, given the same chances, the same attentions, but they’d neither one of them been in any position to give or accept such chances, so what was the point in mooning over it? The past was the past—well, the future, rather. He couldn’t help that Malfoy—but he could help _this_ one. He could help this Malfoy _become_ that Malfoy, except a better version, someone who impressed Harry just by existing, because Harry knew what he’d gone through to get to that point. 

Someone, Harry thought, he could be friends with. Because now that Harry could see it—see _Malfoy_, see what he had the potential to become, see him _acting_ on that potential and making an actual effort to live up to everything he claimed to be… Well, it was kind of brilliant. And Harry really, truly wanted to see it pan out—and to be there when it did.

“…Ron definitely spiked that cocoa,” Harry muttered to himself, finally calling it a night. If he was seriously getting maudlin over the thought of being best mates with Draco Sodding Malfoy, it was time to turn in.

* * *

Winter finally began to show her teeth, sinking her claws into the Hogwarts grounds with an early heavy snowfall, and so quickly did the cold pounce upon them that the Hufflepuff-Ravenclaw match had to be postponed a week until the stands’ Warming Charms could be replenished and the pitch cleared of the fresh powder that blanketed the highlands around the castle as far as the eye could see. 

The blustery, bitter weather outside had more students than usual eager to spend their free hours within the comfort of the castle’s charmed masonry, which meant larger DA meetings than usual as well. The Room of Requirement had no difficulty accommodating the crowd, of course, but it could not manifest more hands with which to lead the training, and even with Harry and his paltry force of student-teachers doing their level best, meetings were starting to get out of hand. 

Still, hectic as it was, Harry kind of enjoyed the chaos—he’d missed the rush of Auror missions, and while there was no risk to life or limb teaching a group of teenagers how to cast Jinxes and Hexes (no more than usual, at least), it still left him with a warm, fulfilling sense of accomplishment. 

But between DA meetings and their preparation as well as his own studies and private tutoring session with Malfoy, Harry’s world was a-blur with activity, and before he realised it, winter holidays were upon them. Three whole months he’d spent here, in the past, and he found himself adjusting to it almost frighteningly well. It was like discovering an old pullover in the back of the wardrobe and finding it still fit like a glove, warm and comfortable and _easy_, when life of late had become distressingly difficult to navigate. 

Harry was wise enough, though—or worldly enough, rather—to recognise the danger in thinking that way, in _feeling_ that way. This wasn’t his home, and these weren’t his friends—well, of course they _were_, and it _was_, but the ‘when’ was all wrong, and he was starting to get a sense of Hermione’s urgency concerning the time he was spending here in the past, though perhaps not for the same reasons as she: It was only, the longer he existed _here_, the less he longed to continue his existence _there_. 

And much as he might like to do just that—much as he might enjoy Hermione and Ron with a few less lines on their features and their future still bright ahead of them; or the comfort and companionship of all his friends being together in one place, communing, instead of flung to the far corners of the earth wherever their lives and careers might lead them; or even Malfoy and his stiff, stilted attempts at bettering himself and stubborn commitment to doing it on his own terms and with minimal outside aid, prideful arsehole that he was—he _couldn’t_. He mustn’t. 

Because he didn’t belong here. He’d been given a gift, and he was grateful—but equally so was he wary of being greedy. Taking more than he’d been offered, presuming too much on what his role was. He was Harry Potter, a walking saviour complex in wire-rimmed spectacles, and once he’d done his duty—mended what needed mending—then he needed to do as he’d promised Hermione he would and go back. 

Go back—and pray whatever changes he’d made here would be enough.

He’d never been one for prayer, though; the Dursleys had been a church-going family, as was proper, but never had they invited Harry along to a service, nor had Harry ever asked to accompany them. So he was not going to leave Malfoy’s future up to chance or prayer or wide-eyed hope. He’d never done so before, after all, being distressingly Gryffindor in all his endeavours, and he wasn’t about to start now.

He’d given Hermione his word that, if they hadn’t sorted out Harry’s situation by Christmas, he’d come clean to McGonagall and the Unspeakables about who he was and from whence he hailed and seek their help in returning himself to his proper plane of existence. Which had seemed like an easy enough concession to make back in September but had become quite the source of stress and worry now it was mid-December.

Harry recalled, through the veil of memory rendered spotty by the passage of time, that he had spent his Eighth Year holidays at the Burrow with Ron and the rest of the Weasley family, much as he’d spent them in the several years previous (outside of, of course, their little camping trip across the English countryside in what would have been Seventh Year). This time around, though, he was thinking about staying on at Hogwarts, a decision with which Ron disagreed _most_ heartily—even more so on hearing Harry’s reasoning. 

“To—_keep Malfoy company_?” Ron blustered. “He’s got his own house he can go and spend Christmas at, can’t he? Leave off with him for _two weeks_, Harry, honest!”

“Well yeah, he does have the Manor, but his dad’s in Azkaban of course, so it’d just be him and his mum rattling around in a place you know as well as I they were practically prisoners in.”

“Well _bad luck_; some of your friends were _actually _prisoners there.” 

“Then you can see why he might not view it as a ‘home’ of any sort at all. Besides, I think his mum’s spending the holidays in the south of France.” At least, he was pretty sure it was just for the holidays—to his recollection, she hadn’t moved there for good until after Lucius’s death, but perhaps the Malfoys had apartments there for seasonal use. It certainly sounded better than spending a dreary winter in Wiltshire.

“So he can go stay with her in France, then!” Ron said, too eager. “Best to be with family at Christmas, I always say! They can throw up a great big gaudy tree in the dining room and string up tinsel and fairy lights and glittery baubles whilst Celestina Warbeck serenades them with _My Christmas Cauldron’s Bubbling Over_—they’ll have a grand ol’ time.” 

“It’s _France_, Ron—Malfoy’s not allowed to leave the country, and even if his mum wanted to come back for the holidays, the Manor’s hardly fit for human habitation.”

“Sounds like it’d suit Malfoy just fine, then.” Harry gave him a hard look—this was going about how Harry had expected but not how he’d hoped—and Ron whirled on Hermione, face drawn. “_Help_ me talk some sense into him!”

Hermione bit her lip, expression suggesting she was no more thrilled with Harry’s decision than Ron was (though less hysterical) but not too terribly surprised. “…Harry, I know you’ve gotten…well, _fond_ of Malfoy—” Ron made a noise of despair, deep in the back of his throat, and threw an arm over his eyes as he flopped back against the Common Room sofa. “—and it’s kind of you to be concerned about him, seeing as this will probably be his first Christmas alone—”

Ron laughed, a bit manic. “Which is entirely down to his and his household’s commitment to the lofty cause of slaughtering Muggles and Muggleborns, let’s remember that, shall we? Because I feel like we’re maybe starting to forget it.”

“—but everyone will miss you terribly.”

“Right!” Ron shouted, triumphant. “Right! Bill and Fleur are supposed to be coming, and Charlie’ll be in from Romania, and it just won’t be the same if you aren’t there with us, mate!”

“Then I’ll…” Harry huffed, groping for a solution. “I’ll talk to McGonagall about using her Floo to come for Christmas morning, how’s that?” Ron did not seem satisfied with this compromise at all, and Hermione had to pat him on the leg placatingly when he looked like he wanted to tell Harry _exactly_ ‘how that was’. “Just—I didn’t really want to mention this, but—”

“Then don’t!” Hermione pleaded, holding her hands up.

Harry ignored her, barrelling ahead. “But Malfoy’s dad, Lucius Malfoy, he…” He glanced around the Common Room, though at this hour, it was largely empty, and they’d thrown a _Muffliato_ up besides. “He dies on Christmas Eve. Murdered by another inmate in Azkaban.”

“Oh my goodness,” Hermione said, voice soft with shock, and her pallor went grey as she leaned into Ron for support.

Harry nodded. “Yeah. So…so if it happens the same way this time—”

“What do you mean _if_ it happens the same way?” Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. “Did you meddle in Malfoy’s _dad’s_ affairs as well, Harry?”

“He can’t leave well enough alone with these Malfoys, can he?” Ron moaned.

“Er, maybe, but only a tiny bit—and I tried to put it back how it was! So it might not’ve made any difference? Anyway—the point is, if he’s stuck here, all alone, and he gets an owl telling him his dad’s just been murdered…well, he shouldn’t have to go through that by himself, should he?”

“Sounds like he got through it fine _before_,” Ron muttered darkly, and Hermione pinched him.

Harry looked at them both in turn. “I just think this is where I ought to be this year. I mean, I can’t exactly invite him to The Burrow—”

“You got that right!” Ron shrieked, aghast, and Harry mustered a grudging smile.

“You’ve both been amazing, supporting me through all this shit, so…trust me on this one? I _swear_ I’ll be there for Christmas morning, bright and early. With presents.”

“_Better_ have presents…” Ron grumbled under his breath, and Hermione pinched him again, but more fondly this time.

“I suppose, but…Owl us every day, at least?” Hermione said. “I’m spending the bulk of my holidays with my parents—_lots_ of research left to do, as I’m sure you’re aware—but I’m visiting The Burrow for Christmas Day lunch as well, and Molly’s invited me to stay after Boxing Day so I can head back to King’s Cross with them once the break is over.”

Harry sailed right past the insinuation he hadn’t been pulling his weight with the Ouroboros research, even though he clearly hadn’t. “Brilliant, then—I’ll see the both of you on Christmas, and back again once the new term starts.”

Ron’s expression was still torn, the corners of his lips firmed. “…You sure you want to spend the _whole_ Christmas holiday here? Stuck with Malfoy?”

“Minus Christmas Day, remember?” Ron rolled his eyes. “And it’s not so much that I _want_ to—” Ron rolled his eyes even _harder_. “—it’s just I don’t want all the progress we’ve made going to pot, yeah? This business with his dad might set him back. You know, emotionally.”

Ron muttered something that Harry thought sounded a bit like _Know a lot about Malfoy’s emotional well-being, do you?_ before sighing dramatically. “Well, _you’re_ gonna have to be the one to explain the situation to Mum, because no way am _I_ wading into it. So enjoy that conversation.”

Keen to remain on his friends’ good sides, now he’d obtained their tacit permission to spend his winter holidays keeping Malfoy company, Harry spent more time than usual the final few days of the term in the Gryffindor Common Room, piecing through dusty old tomes Hermione heaved into his lap for research and letting Ron continue his streak of utterly thrashing Harry at wizarding chess. “I’ll expect an improvement in your strategy when we get back,” Ron said as he was packing his trunk in their room. “I can’t imagine Prissypants McDeatheater down there didn’t have his own personal cavalcade of tutors before he turned two, so have him play you a bit. He’s probably passably skilled.”

Harry blanched. “And give him _another_ reason to take the piss out of me?”

Ron shrugged. “Could be my Christmas present from you.”

When the hour approached noon, Harry trundled down to Hogsmeade Station with Ron and Hermione and the rest of the Hogwarts students heading home for the holidays, helping them put their trunks away in one of the cabins after clearing it of First Years when he poked his head inside to ask if the free space had been taken. “You’d think I killed a bloke…” Harry huffed, watching the students scramble away down the aisle to the next car as he Levitated Hermione’s trunk into an overhead compartment.

“I’ve left the books I’m not taking with me under your name in the Library, Harry,” she said by way of thanks. “Just let Madame Pince know, and she’ll get you set up.”

“Top of my to-do list,” Harry promised.

“Christmas lunch’ll be roundabout noon,” Ron said, just as the Hogwarts Express tooted a steam-sharp warning for non-passengers to disembark. “But Floo in whenever you like. Mum’d probably do a dance on the rooftop even if you showed up at half-three in the morning.”

Harry dodged a pair of Hufflepuff-Slytherin Prefects stalking down the aisle, berating the underclassmen from their respective Houses for running in the carriage. “I’ll be there bright and early. Wouldn’t miss Molly’s holiday cooking for the world.”

“Just remember, you could be eating it every day for the next two weeks!” Ron called as Harry broke into a little jog—Prefects be damned—and made his way back onto the Hogsmeade Station platform. He turned back just as the doors slid shut, waving at Hermione and Ron in their little compartment. Ron had his face pressed up against the glass, mouthing something Harry couldn’t make out but was probably a rundown of all the dishes Ron would be enjoying in the next forty-eight hours that Harry would have to miss.

He took his time returning to the castle, foregoing a Warming Charm and Transfiguring the little puffs of steam his breath made in the chill air into his and his Housemates’ initials. He’d reached the Entrance Hall and just made it through everyone from his year, about to start on Ginny’s, when he nearly ran smack into Malfoy, slinking from the Great Hall with a basket of what smelled like warm Cornish pasties and an apple tart tucked under his robe.

“What are _you_ doing here?” Malfoy barked, clutching his basket protectively to his chest and doing a fair imitation of the snotty tone he’d taken the first time Harry had barged in on him while he’d been sulking in the Room of Requirement. 

“Walking,” Harry said. “Or attempting to.” He sniffed at Malfoy’s treat-filled basket. “Got enough for two? I haven’t had lunch yet.”

“Well—no, I—” Malfoy started, then straightened, angling himself away so Harry couldn’t make a grab for the basket. “_No_. Of course not. What are you doing here?” He glanced over Harry’s shoulder, to the imposing wooden doors guarding the Entrance Hall. “You didn’t miss the train, did you? Good gad, Potter, I realise you’ve got the organisational faculties of a Troll and it’s been a hot minute since you last graced these halls with your presence, but term ends on the same day _every year—_”

Harry shot an arm out, snagging a pasty before Malfoy could blink, and he’d already taken a bite by the time Malfoy shrieked in protest. “Didn’t miss it,” he said around a mouthful. “Not going.”

Malfoy recoiled at the site of his open-mouthed chewing, promptly Banishing the basket up to the seventh-floor corridor and out of Harry’s reach. His practise with his true wand had helped him learn to manage the finicky responses of his Ministry-approved wand, such that now he could manage a few select spells with a deftness none would suspect. Just a bit of mortar to help plug the chinks in his crumbling wall of pride.

“What do you _mean_ you’re ‘not going’? Of course you’re going. You have—” Malfoy waved his hand weakly in the direction of Hogsmeade. “Weasleys. Too many of them to count.”

“I mean I’m not going,” Harry said, swallowing hard around the last of the pasty and licking his fingers daintily, because the expression of horror Malfoy wore as he watched, somehow unable to look away, was entirely too entertaining. “I’m sure I mentioned it.”

“I’m sure you did _not_.”

“You’re right, I didn’t. Because you didn’t ask.”

“Because I don’t _care_.”

“Then why are we having this conversation?”

“Because—” Malfoy started, and then seemed to realise he hadn’t decided how to finish the sentence, so he made a frustrated sound in the back of his throat and sighed. “Why on _earth_ are you hanging around here instead of fucking off to The Warren—”

“The Burrow.”

“Good gad, I _made that up_, don’t tell me that’s _actually_ what they call their _home_?” Malfoy pinched his nose, breathing slowly. “Just answer the fucking question.”

“Give me another pasty, and I might.”

To his surprise, Malfoy summoned another plateful that had freshly materialised on the Slytherin tables and sent it zooming ahead of them, up to the Room, letting Harry explain himself along the way.

He had to be delicate about it, Harry reminded himself, because Malfoy was a prickly, sensitive sort who, if he thought he was being pitied, would not react kindly to Harry’s genuine gestures. So he framed his decision to linger in the castle over the break in the most academic and austere language he could manage: 

“Well my N.E.W.T.s aren’t going to pass themselves.”

Malfoy gave him a withering look as they tromped up the steps, pausing only at the fifth-floor landing as the staircases rearranged themselves above. “Are you _seriously_ intending to still be here come May? And haven’t you been offered a free pass into your cushy Aurorship on graduation? I still fail to see why you’d go through the trouble.”

“I intend to be here however long it takes. And as I’m certain I mentioned before: I earned my spot on the force on my _own_ merits, respectable N.E.W.T. scores and all. You should well know there’s something to be said about earning your spot on a team, instead of being handed it on a platter.” Malfoy gave a grudging little grunt under his breath that Harry took to signal his resounding agreement.

“Quite the academic spirit you’ve cultivated in these recent months, Potter.”

“What can I say? I’ve an unquenchable thirst for learning.”

“And this passionate quest for edification is, of course, in no way an excuse for you to hover about me as if I were a delicate flower, liable to wilt into despondence at the notion of having to spend my holiday alone or turn to a life of crime and debauchery the moment you glance away.”

Harry shook his head, perhaps with more gusto than was merited. “Absolutely not. I’m stricken you’d think so little of me.”

“Because, and perhaps it’s escaped your notice, the timeline is changing—you’ve admitted as such yourself.” Malfoy turned on his heel once they reached the seventh-floor landing, holding Harry’s eye as he marched backwards towards the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy. “Your incessant mothering is in all likelihood entirely unnecessary.”

“That’s why you think I stayed? To _mother_ you?” Harry forced a barking laugh. “I’ve met your mother, Malfoy. I’ve _no _intention of trying to take her place.”

“A wise decision. You’re entirely lacking in the Blacks’ exquisite facial proportions.”

Harry rubbed his chin. “My facial proportions are all right…”

“But forgive me if I’m less than convinced your decision to hang back hinges entirely on academic pursuits. You’re stupid, Potter. But you aren’t _stupid_.”

Harry drew to a stop in front of the stretch of hallway where the door to the Room would appear once they summoned it, settling back against the smooth, solid stone wall. He crossed his arms. “That was almost a compliment. I think.”

Malfoy wrinkled his nose. “Oh, my mistake. You _are_ stupid after all.”

“I’m really _not_ here to mother you. Or hover. Or any other synonym you might conjure to suggest you think I’m staying behind because of _you_.”

Malfoy scooped up the waiting baskets of pasties and tarts he’d sent ahead, letting them dangle from both arms. “No?”

“No,” Harry said, with what he hoped was more confidence. “…I only don’t relish the idea of spending two weeks stuck in close quarters with two friends who’ll either be making eyes at each other or hounding me about getting on with our Ouroboros research—I’m not sure which is worse—and an ex-girlfriend who I’m pretty sure isn’t entirely over me yet and might see the Christmas season as the perfect chance to corner me under some mistletoe and suggest we make another go of it.”

“Trouble in paradise on all fronts, is it then?”

Harry decided to take a walk, focusing his thoughts as he did so—_I need a place where we can have a nice, private conversation without anyone bothering us_. “I love them—all of them, including Ginny—I really do. But, well—” He shrugged, full-bodily. “They’re different people, here. Different from the ones I’ve grown up knowing. They’re—young and small-minded and they think things are important that _aren’t_ important, and they think things aren’t important that _are_.” He was babbling now, even he could hear it, and he expected Malfoy to return with a derisive scoff or another cruelly mocking taunt about how truly terrible Harry had it.

But, “I’m young,” he said instead. “And I imagine I’m different too.”

He was, at that. On both points. “I wouldn’t know, though, would I?” The door to the Room of Requirement popped into view, and Harry leaned on the handle, pushing his way inside as Malfoy followed with his baskets full of pastries swinging from his arms. “And it’s not about _age_—it’s only seven years, recall. It’s…it’s everything that’s _happened_ in those seven years. The…weight. Of experience.” Harry frowned to himself, sinking into his familiar armchair with an inward sigh. He glanced up at Malfoy, who had set his baskets on a sturdy carved wooden table already set with two places. “Sometimes I just miss them, is all.” He drummed his fingers along the arms of his chair. “At least with you, here, I’m not reminded of what’s gone.”

“Only what you could have had,” Malfoy said, too soft to be mistaken for the haughty boast he might have meant it, half-daring Harry to shoot him down. 

He decided to let it stand. It was the season of giving, after all.

“…So yeah, I’m all right with a bit of space for a couple of weeks. No DA meetings, no classes, no scrambling to find a Potions partner before I’m stuck with Ginny—at least not ‘til next term.”

“She’s your _ex_, Potter. Not a leper.” Malfoy tapped the empty glasses on the table, which promptly filled themselves—presumably from the thermos that had been tucked into one of the baskets between the Cornish pasties and apple tarts. Harry was on his feet in an instant, suddenly ravenous from the long climb.

“Yeah, I know, but—I just don’t want to give her false hope. Seems like she’s still in the mindset to interpret any small kindness as an indication I’m open to starting things up again.”

“False hope,” Malfoy repeated with a sniff, delicately placing two pasties apiece on their plates and laying a Stasis Charm over the baskets with his Hawthorn wand he’d pulled seemingly from the aether, so deftly had he palmed it. Harry’s heart thrummed with pride to see Malfoy so familiar with it once more, when he would have been happy to see it snapped in half only a few months earlier. “I suppose that means you’ve no intention of taking up again with Girl Weasley?”

“Didn’t before; still don’t now.” Harry shrugged, slipping onto the polished wooden bench as he reached for a pasty.

“Your squadrons of fans must have been heartbroken. I’m quite certain I read your romance described as ‘one for the ages’ in some _Prophet_ article or another.”

Harry wrinkled his nose, recalling well those awkward few months when he’d avoided any and all interactions with Ron’s parents, worried they might think less of him for not settling down with Ginny as so many had expected—Harry included. It’d taken Arthur cornering him one Hogsmeade weekend with a stern but well-meant talking-to for Harry to recognise he’d always have a place in their home, lawfully bound or otherwise. He poked at his pasty, momentarily bereft of an appetite. “Felt like the first decision I’d ever gotten to make on my own, so I made it.”

“You dumped her as an act of _rebellion_? Merlin but _you_ were Sorted wrong.”

“It wasn’t _rebellion_—” Harry protested, except it kind of had been, of a sort. He’d probably have been content, carrying on with Ginny, and on and on until a few mini Harry-and-Ginnys popped up and made Harry remember that, once upon a time, this had been his dream: a _family_. A unit wholly devoted to him, and to whom he could wholly devote himself and never ever be disappointed. But there would have always been a part of him, small and locked away in a little mental cupboard, that wished for something _different_. Something no one had seen coming, least of all him. “I just…needed to see. If I could do it: be happy doing something _other_ than what people expected of me.”

Malfoy gave him a long look, fingers curled around a silver fork that he held like a wand. “…And did it work?”

“After a fashion.” Of course, then he’d gone and joined the Aurors and kept on doing that ‘saving people’ bit for which he was so renowned, so he hadn’t exactly seen the thread he’d begun to pick at all the way to its unravelling, had he? But while that quiet flirtation with the unexpected had not solved all of his problems, he still thought he was better off for it, all things considered. “Turned out better for her than for me, I think.”

“I believe you made mention of a Quidditch career. And a captaincy. Probably sounds better to the ear than ‘Harry Potter’s wife’.”

Harry rather thought Ginny might still have had her Harpies position and lucrative career even if they _had_ stuck it out together, but she certainly _wouldn’t_ have had Lisbet. “Yeah, there’s that—and also a ring on her finger. From a teammate.”

Malfoy frowned. “…Aren’t the Harpies—”

“An all-women’s team? You should’ve been Sorted Ravenclaw.” Harry sighed. “Lisbet’s all right. Doesn’t talk much—but then Ginny never shuts up once she’s gotten going, so they balance nicely. They’re good for each other—so I wouldn’t want to do anything that might jeopardise it. Like making myself conveniently available at The Burrow while Ginny’s still waving around that torch she’s carrying for me.”

“Hm,” Malfoy said, lifting a brow and twirling his fork around before hacking into one of the pasties as he used it to saw off a chunk. “So you’ll meddle in _my_ life, but not others’.”

“One—put that fork down and eat your pasty with your fingers like a civilised person. And two—the others aren’t dead, or as good as.”

In a brazen act of defiance, Malfoy stabbed the bit of pasty he’d managed to separate out with his fork and then popped it in his mouth. The heathen. “So,” he said, throat bobbing as he swallowed. “No one else, then?”

Harry decided Malfoy’s pasty habits were too gruesome to watch, so he forced his attention back to his own plate. Pasties first, then apple tarts waiting after. “What?”

He stabbed at another bit of pasty, waving it tauntingly at Harry. “No one else, then? After her.”

And suddenly, it hit Harry like the Hogwarts Express: he was seven minutes and counting into a casual conversation with Draco Malfoy about Harry’s _love life. _Harry never had these sorts of chats even with Ron—at least, not until they’d both partaken of a few rounds of the Leaky’s finest—so how exactly had it come to this? The juice Malfoy had swiped from the Great Hall wasn’t spiked, Harry didn’t think, but then that would mean they’d meandered around to this topic _freely_, through the general course of conversation, and that was just absurd. He wasn’t Malfoy’s friend, and Malfoy wasn’t his—yet here they were. Enjoying a private picnic while they gossipped about romantic relations like a pair of old biddies. 

Harry straightened, clearing his throat softly. “Well. No.”

“No?” Malfoy said, actually sounding shocked. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing’s wrong with me,” Harry snapped. “I’ve just been busy, is all.”

“No one’s too busy to _shag_, Potter.”

Harry went beet red—when had _shagging_ entered the picture? Malfoy’d only asked him if he’d been seeing anyone—but then, Harry was twenty-five, and generally by that age, if you were seeing someone and were amenable to that sort of thing (and Harry was very amenable, very), there was likely to be some degree of shagging going on as well. “Well—they are if they’re an Auror!”

“Codswallop,” Malfoy snickered, reaching for another pasty from the basket—fingers and all. “If that’s the case, you’re not doing shagging right. Do you need to be tutored in that as well?”

Harry fought the urge to bash his head against the table in a desperate bid to rid his brain of the abruptly conjured mental image of Malfoy, dressed in some strappy leather-harness outfit while holding a riding crop instead of a wand and snapping orders at him with Snape’s characteristic superior sneer. _“Put your back into it, Potter! And try to come _second_ for once in your life!”_

“No, I do _not_ need to be tut—” he started, before considering Malfoy might demand a demonstration of some sort if he made such a boast. No, it was clear from the way Malfoy had angled his body, relaxed and lazy, with a devious little grin curling his lip, he was thoroughly enjoying putting Harry on his back foot with such suggestions. Well two could play that game. He shoved a whole pasty into his mouth. “And what about _you_?” he demanded around his massive bite.

“What _about_ me?” Malfoy cocked his head. “Are you propositioning me? I might’ve said _no_ flat out just a moment ago, but now I’ve seen what you can fit in your mouth, we might have something here.”

Harry full choked on the pasty, banging his chest with his fist and groping desperately for his glass of juice, which Malfoy daintily nudged into his grip. After two long minutes during which Harry deliberated spitting the pasty back out onto the plate, he’d finally managed it down to a size it wouldn’t block his windpipe, and with a swallow that nearly brought tears to his eyes, he panted, open-mouthed, until he got his breath back. Malfoy watched him, bored, and continued to use his fork to divide his own pasty into manageable bites. The least the arsehole could have done was offer to _Reducio_ the bit lodged in Harry’s throat.

“I take it back,” Malfoy sighed. “Your gag reflex is clearly shite. I’m no longer amenable to your overtures.”

“Wasn’t—making any—_overt_—” Harry tried, trailing off at the end in a coughing fit. “God, you—are the—_worst_.”

“Still think forks are for heathens?”

“No, I think—” Harry cleared his throat gently, closing his eyes as he took several deep breaths. “I think spending too much time around you is hazardous to my health.”

“It took you seven—pardon, _fourteen_ years to see that? Good gad, and here I thought you’d syphoned at least _some_ brains from Granger over the years. My mistake.”

Harry pulled a sour frown. “Well we _had_ been having a perfectly nice conversation.”

“And we still were, by my mark, until you propositioned me.”

“I wasn’t _propo_—” Harry nearly bit his tongue, wiping a hand over his face. “I was merely turning _your_ question back on you. It’s part and parcel of a chat, such as we were having. The free give and take of information. I know you’re partial to hearing _yourself_ talk, but in House Gryffindor, we like to be equitable about our conversations.”

Malfoy leaned forward, fist braced under his chin as he fixed Harry with a riveted gaze. “That sounds absolutely _fascinating_. Tell me more; I really _must _get in on this, if House Gryffindor is about it!”

And then Harry saw it. Clear as day.

He saw the whole exchange for _precisely_ what it was: a diversion.

Here was Malfoy again, so perfectly mirroring himself seven years hence that Harry was astounded he hadn’t seen it before. Years of Auror training and longer in the field, and it’d taken nearly hacking up a lung to notice. God, he was going to be a _wreck_ once he found his way back to Robards. He’d be demoted back to patrolling Diagon Alley like a trainee, for sure.

Because this was what Malfoy did, when he was uncomfortable. When he didn’t want to talk about something, when he wanted to watch Harry squirm. Rile him up, make him uncomfortable, and maybe Harry would be so caught up in his anger or irritation, he’d forget to press Malfoy. He’d done it in the cell in Azkaban, and he was doing it again here: being an insufferable little shit so Harry couldn’t get the upper hand on him. So he’d always have the high ground, safe and secure and sure of himself.

He straightened, swallowing. “Are you going to answer, then?”

“Hm?”

“My question. I asked you if you were seeing anyone. It only seemed fair, since you were haranguing me about _my_ love life, to have you spill about your own. If there was anything to speak of, that is.”

Malfoy went a bit tense across the shoulders, the languidity in his pose drawing just a bit tighter. “Think I can’t get a girlfriend?” he asked, tone gone frosty. 

“Thought you had one for a while there, to be honest. Parkinson.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “If a Crup trundles up to you begging for scraps, are you obliged to feed it?”

“You’re calling Parkinson a _Crup_? I don’t think she’d like to hear that…”

“And if you know what’s good for you, she _won’t_.” Malfoy shook a finger at him in threat, then crossed his arms over his chest, shrugging. “You’ve seen I spend most of my waking hours in this Room when I’m not in class; what do _you_ think my relationship status is?”

Was this a trick question? He didn’t want to step in it, even if it was perfectly common knowledge few were willing to be seen being friendly with Slytherins after the war, let alone romantically entangled. Plus your prospects were likely even more dismal if you had a Dark Mark on your arm. Harry decided to be diplomatic about it. “Well, I mean, there’s your _sleeping_ hours. And I dunno what you lot get up to in the Dungeons…” Another salacious image manifested itself wholly unbidden in his mind, and he instantly regretted his wording.

“First you proposition me, and now you’re fantasising we get up to wild orgies at the weekends?” Malfoy tutted under his breath. “Sounds like someone needs an _Aguamenti_ to the face.”

Harry closed his eyes and counted to ten and told himself he did _not_ regret not going to The Burrow. Not even a little bit.


	10. Chapter 10

Having not had the need for a winter visit in his years since graduating, Harry had quite forgotten how enchanting Hogwarts could be at Christmas. He’d put down most fond memories of the season to the frost-limned, rose-coloured blur of time, but with all the festive glamour sitting there right before his very eyes now, it was difficult to argue it hadn’t always been this warm and rich and welcoming. From the carolling portraits sloshed on nutmeg-spiced eggnog to the twelve evergreens lining the Great Hall tastefully decorated in notes of silver and gold to the charmed ceiling showering the House tables in great gobs of fluffy snowflakes, good cheer was curdling warm enough in Harry’s belly it kept him toasty on even the most blustery of winter days.

The castle being largely empty for the holidays, save for the few students hanging back like Harry and Malfoy as well as the staff who lived on-grounds, meant they could freely venture outside of the Room and still enjoy some degree of privacy. It helped, too, that hardly anyone had the nerve to approach either of them separately, let alone as a pair, and Harry found he enjoyed this little glimpse into the whole ‘swanning about the halls unmolested’ thing that Malfoy had had going for him most of his time at Hogwarts.

With classes not in session, they were allowed to spend as much time in Hogsmeade as they pleased, and they took to visiting practically every other day, if only because they weren’t allowed to drink on campus (well, not legally at least) and Aberforth’s place was dingy but quiet and poorly patronised, so they could throw up a _Muffliato_ and while away the daylight hours. Harry even visited the village by himself, just the once, in search of a Christmas present. For Malfoy.

He’d had his friends’ gifts sorted out weeks back—cheating, a bit, since he still roughly recalled what he’d gotten them the first time around—but Malfoy’s had taken some thought. He’d dithered for a while there, wondering whether he ought to give him anything at all, or if it might seem forward, because they weren’t friends, were they? But he’d gotten gifts for McGonagall (an apology for his appropriation of her Floo) and Kingsley (an apology for the back and forth with Lucius Malfoy and his gracious understanding and declining to have Harry brought in for questioning under Veritaserum) and they weren’t really his friends either, were they? So this could just be a ‘colleagues’ gift. A ‘mutual tutors’ gift. An ‘entwined fates’ gift. Well maybe not the last one—that sounded too hokey.

More to the point, he didn’t expect Malfoy to give him anything in return, so at least he’d get to feel smug for being so thoughtful, and that would be a Christmas gift for Harry in and of itself.

After Scrivenshaft’s turned up a bust as far as fancy quills went, he found what he was certain would be the perfect book for the difficult bastard in Tomes and Scrolls, and a few extra Knuts on top of the sticker price ensured it would be Owl-delivered to the castle Christmas morning, waiting for Malfoy while Harry was off stuffing his face at The Burrow.

Harry kept the both of them busy, though, in one way or another: if they weren’t playing Wizarding darts or Exploding Snap at the Hog’s Head, then they were sparring with the nastiest Jinxes and Hexes they could safely cast without causing grievous harm or requisitioning the empty Quidditch pitch for their Seeker’s games or—just the once, and Malfoy had probably only agreed because he’d indulged more than he ought to have at the Hog’s Head that afternoon and evidently forgotten the whole of Third Year—helping Hagrid vaccinate the Hippogriff foals.

He kept them busy, because if Malfoy was busy, then he wasn’t thinking about the looming Christmas Eve and any murders that might occur thereabouts. 

And Malfoy seemed obliging enough, his accusations of Harry _hovering_ or _mothering him _declining in frequency the closer the calendar drew to the twenty-fourth, but Harry could see in odd moments the stress mounting and tightening and crushing. He saw it in the way Malfoy sometimes failed to appear at breakfast—or anywhere even, until nearly lunch. He saw it in the way he perked up, alert and eyes wide, when an owl entered the Great Hall at meal times bearing a letter or gift for one of the remaining students or staff. He saw it in the way Malfoy was moving, always moving—drumming his fingers on a table or bouncing his knee or running a hand through his hair—as if the moment he stopped, the thoughts would come rushing back. 

So Harry helped, however he could, and while he could not stop the passage of time, he did his best to help Malfoy forget about it.

And on Christmas Eve itself, Harry went all in.

“You going back down to the Dungeons?” he asked, mopping his face with a towel after they wrapped up their duelling session in the Room of Requirement. Harry had let Malfoy win, because he was a nice guy. It was entirely different from losing, and Harry was going to stick with that defence. 

Malfoy frowned at him around a swig of water from a tumbler. “As it’s nearly curfew, yes, I was planning on it. Filch gives you shit no matter your year if you’re out after ten, and I’m in no mood to deal with it tonight.” He stripped off his Charmed chest plate—they’d been practising nastier Hexes and Curses meant for wand-on-wand real-world combat, and Harry had insisted they wear proper protective gear—and Vanished it. 

Harry slipped his hands into his pockets, running his tongue over his teeth in thought. He had to be very careful about this—especially tonight, of all nights—or Malfoy might really snap, _badly_, and it’d be months before he trusted Harry again, if ever. “…I think I’m gonna stay here tonight.”

“Stay _here_?” Malfoy’s eyes darted around, taking in the high walls covered in trappings of silver and green, before coming back to fix on Harry with a wary sort of confusion. “In the _Room_?” He frowned to himself. “What on earth for?”

“Because I want to,” Harry said, licking his lips. “And I think you should stay, too.”

Malfoy’s frown melted away into one of cold, stony indifference, and he straightened up. “…And why is that?”

“Because you can’t stay in Gryffindor Tower.”

Malfoy’s lip curled. “Again with the propositioning?” he said, but his tone lacked any amusement, and besides, Harry knew this game well by now and was in no mood to play. 

“It’s not pity, you know.”

“Then what _is it_?” Malfoy hissed, fingers white-knuckle-tight around the empty tumbler, and Harry imagined he was trying very hard to resist the urge to chuck it at the wall. Oh how far they’d come in their brief time together.

“Empathy.”

“Sounds like _sympathy_.”

“It does. But it’s not—because I’ve lost parents too, people I loved—”

“You were _an infant_—”

“Not for Sirius. Not for Lupin and Moody and Tonks. Not for Fred Weasley. And I’ll admit it’s not the same—every time for me, it’s been sudden and unexpected and never…never so _drawn out_. And that sucks. So I’m sorry I told you about it, I honestly am. I thought I was making things better, but maybe…” Harry shook his head. “Maybe I should’ve left well enough alone.”

Malfoy regarded him for a long moment, quiet and breathing shallowly—and then he carefully placed the tumbler, unshattered, on a table across which they’d spread several research tomes from Hermione’s list. “Bit late now to be having a change of heart, isn’t it?” Harry winced. “I’ve told you, I don’t need your—”

“Call it hovering or mothering or pity or whatever you like, but it’s something we _all_ need at times. Empathy, or failing that, compassion. Or failing _that_, a good Mind Healer.”

“And which did you get? To handle your cosy little cadre of deceased companions and relations?”

“Mind Healer,” Harry said, without missing a beat.

“Ought to demand your money back. You’re still a demented wreck.”

“And your dad might die tonight.” Harry wasn’t above taking potshots, especially since he was pretty sure Malfoy was the type to appreciate tough love. “So stay here. We’ll have the Elves in the kitchens send up enough sugary confections we’ll be bouncing off the walls ‘til daybreak, and I’ll even let you beat me at another duel, if you like.”

“_Let_ me beat you?” Malfoy bristled.

“Or—” And Harry hit on a brilliant idea, though he didn’t expect he’d enjoy it much himself. Still, it would certainly distract Malfoy. “Ron’s been kicking my arse in Wizard’s Chess since, well, forever, so if you’ve got any pointers… We could play a game or seven?” Ron had, after all, encouraged him to play against Malfoy.

“Weasley’s a dimwit, but he knows his way around a board. If he hasn’t been able to mold you into anything approaching a challenge in ten-plus years of riding your coattails, I’m certainly not going to waste my time.”

And knowing well that Malfoy ought to have _relished_ the chance to lord his greater skill set over Harry, under normal circumstances, Harry gave him a wincing smile. “…You can’t play either, eh?”

Malfoy stiffened. “…It’s a _penniless rube’s_ past-time. As evidenced by Weasley’s prowess!”

Harry thought, like Ron, it sounded rather like the sort of game a spoilt prig might be adept at, but now was not the time to point that out. He was meant to keep Malfoy calm—distracted, but calm—and needling him as was typical of their usual interactions was ill-advised this evening. He sighed. “It’s not for sure, you know. The changes I made to the timeline—moving him the once, and then back again—it might’ve altered his future. I mean, it’s what we’re hoping for with you, isn’t it?”

Malfoy’s jaw hardened, and he looked unsteady on his feet. Harry didn’t know what he’d do if Malfoy collapsed. They didn’t prepare you for dealing with schoolyard rivals having emotional breakdowns in Auror Training. “Why does it always have to be you?”

“Sorry?”

“Why…does it always have to be _you?_ When I’m at my lowest. That bathroom. The fire. Azkaban. _This_. Why is it always _you_?” Harry didn’t know quite how to answer that—though it was a very good question, he had to admit. But blessedly, Malfoy did not seem to expect a response, turning to shuffle his feet back over to his favourite green divan. “I don’t want sugar.”

“Afraid it’ll rot your teeth?” Harry tried to gently tease.

Malfoy collapsed onto the cushions, burying his face in one of the throw pillows. “I don’t want to be awake. For—for anything.”

“Oh.” Well, Malfoy certainly would not be preoccupied with whatever might or might not be happening in Azkaban if he was unconscious, and that suited Harry as well. “…Dreamless Sleep?”

Malfoy looked up and scoffed. “Going to walk up to Pomfrey and ask her nicely for it? She’s not going to just _give it_ to you, our Saviour though you may be.”

“No, wasn’t thinking of asking for it.” And Malfoy gave him a look that was half-appalled and half-impressed, then nodded, small and short. Harry sighed. “…Right then. I’ll go and…and find something to cure what ails you. You…” He waved a hand around the room. “Make this place presentable. Find us a bed.”

“_A_ bed?”

“Beds! Plural!” Harry barked, mortified. “Fuck, you knew what I meant.”

“Not when you go around propositioning me at every turn.” Malfoy eased to his feet with a beleaguered huff and began absently Vanishing the furniture, until he’d cleared a space in the middle of the room that was, Harry hoped, large enough for two beds. “Go on then, work your magic,” Malfoy said with a glance over his shoulder when he caught Harry watching him work. “And if your sticky fingers should find something stronger than Dreamless Sleep along the way, Summon a bottle of _that_ too.”

Harry had no intention whatsoever of bringing alcohol into the Room this evening—Malfoy drowning his worst fears and worries in a bottle set a dangerous precedent Harry wanted no part in encouraging—but he gave a wave all the same and slipped from the Room, heading for Gryffindor Tower and his Invisibility Cloak, tucked away safely at the bottom of his school trunk.

Half an hour later, he returned with a bottle of Dreamless in hand to a Room of Requirement that had been transformed in his brief absence to a sleepaway retreat. The torches in the sconces around the space burned low, throwing into soft relief two handsome four-posters, side by side, in bedding that looked plush enough to drown in. Malfoy’s was the very same as he’d found it on his first visit to the Room: a solid ebony frame with a slick bedspread of emerald satin and a tufted headboard in cool grey, piled high with a whole _horde_ of pillows. Harry’s looked not unlike his own four-poster up in Gryffindor Tower—in fact, he was pretty sure it _was_ the same one from Gryffindor Tower.

“…Is that my _actual_ bed?” Harry asked, perplexed; he’d just been up in his dormitory not five minutes prior, and his bed had been present and accounted for. Had the Room transported it here, or simply recreated it? 

Malfoy was laid out on his back on what must have been his own bed, if this was Harry’s. He held over his head a book whose cover Harry could not make out in the low light, tossing it aside flippantly. “Your guess would be better than mine. It was the best the Room could provide.” He rolled over onto his stomach, lifting up onto his elbows with raised brows. “Well? Was Pomfrey feeling generous this evening?”

“After a fashion,” Harry said, drawing the bottle of Dreamless Sleep from his pocket. Malfoy held out a hand expectantly, and Harry drew back, clutching at the bottle protectively. “Er…I’ll measure you out a dose, shall I?”

Malfoy pulled his hand back, rolling his eyes. “Fucking have at it, then. Since I’m evidently in no fit state to care for myself.”

“I didn’t say—” Harry started, then pursed his lips. “I don’t trust you to pace yourself is all. There’s enough in here to keep you sleeping through to Tuesday. I mean for us to get a good night’s rest, and then I’m returning the bottle to Pomfrey’s stores in the morning.”

“You’re taking a dose too?”

“Have to, won’t I? You probably snore, and I’ve got a busy day tomorrow.”

“I do _not_ snore,” Malfoy snapped, bolting off the bed. “Who’s been saying I snore? Blaise? That nattering little _shit_ tunes out anything but the sound of his own voice. And even if I _did_, I’m quite certain there’s worse sounds to keep one up at night down in the Dungeons than a bit of light wheezing.” He ended his breakneck speech with a dramatic, exaggerated shudder, and Harry gave him a moment to collect himself before nodding his understanding.

The Room helpfully produced a sidebar with two fresh glasses sitting on a silver platter, and Harry tipped out enough potion to reach the line on the glasses conveniently labelled _eight good hours_. He passed one to Malfoy, then gently clinked the glasses together. “Cheers.”

Malfoy gave his a delicate sniff, as if worried—or hoping—Harry might have spiked it somehow, but he evidently deemed it fit for consumption and knocked it back in one swig, grimacing. Harry shared the sentiment as he downed his own draught—it was not an entirely _un_pleasant taste, but it certainly wasn’t pleasant either. A bit filmy, sticking on the tongue, and with a bitter aftertaste that was all Harry could focus on. He replaced his glass on the platter and shuffled over to his bed, disrobing as he went.

“How long does this stuff take to kick in?” he asked, peeling his shirt off and reaching for the fresh set of pyjamas the Room had provided him: deep-red plaid with gold thread running through it and an _H_ embroidered on the vest pocket. 

“Good gad, Potter, this isn’t the Quidditch locker rooms,” Malfoy huffed, scandalised, and Harry glanced over his shoulder to see a diaphanous curtain suddenly. materialise between their sides of the Room. “No one needs to see you flaunting your wand when it’s not being used to smite Dark Lords.”

“I’m not getting _naked;_ don’t have a fit, you prude.” 

“Oh _that’s_ rich, coming from the wizard who shrieks like a Puritan at the very mention of the _word_ ‘shagging’.”

Harry flushed brightly, rolling up the cuffs of his sleeves to his elbows. “All I was doing was changing into my pyjamas! And with you all the time accusing me of _propositioning you_, maybe I thought you’d appreciate a preview of the goods and was obliging so you could make an informed decision.”

Malfoy Vanished the curtain—somewhere in the course of their bickering, he’d changed into his own nightclothes, and he stood there with his arms crossed over his chest and mouth twisted into a sour frown wearing a shirt of dark-green plaid shot through with silver and a loopy _D_ embroidered on the vest pocket. He raked Harry with a cool, judging gaze. “Ten minutes.”

Harry boggled, taking a step back and bumping up against one of the posts on his bed. “I—what?”

Malfoy met his step back with a forward step of his own, leaning in. “Ten. Minutes.”

Harry swallowed—and reminded himself this was Malfoy’s classic defence tactic: put Harry on his back foot when things got uncomfortable—a feat he was, Harry was displeased to admit, rather skilled at. “Ten—minutes for…?”

And Malfoy was _distressingly_ close now, so much so Harry could feel the heat from his body and each breath he took. He spoke, very soft and meaningful, “For the potion to start taking effect, you absolute nimrod.”

Harry shoved Malfoy away, bodily, flushing so deeply now his cheeks fair burned, because _really_, where did he get off claiming modesty when he clearly enjoyed making others uncomfortable with such highly inappropriate interactions? It was a wonder he had any friends at all—and a wonder more he hadn’t indulged Parkinson in her crush. “Piss off, and get in the bed.”

Malfoy clutched the fabric over his heart with one hand and laid the wrist of the other against his forehead, swooning against his bedpost. “Right down to business, then? I’ve never been with an Auror before. Will we be using…Body Binds?”

Harry showed him a couple of fingers, then jerked back the covers and climbed up into his bed, grumbling under his breath all the while. He debated drawing the covers back up, as now his _all over_ was flushed and warm, and he didn’t want to get sweaty under the sheets, but if he didn’t, then Malfoy would absolutely ask _why_ and tease him mercilessly until the potion knocked them both out. He would be unconscious shortly and not care about however hot or cold he felt for the next eight hours.

Malfoy, blessedly, put aside further quips as he crawled into his own bed, using a Charm Harry couldn’t catch to fluff his pillow to an impressive size. Harry wanted to ask about it, so he might cast it on his own, but he could already feel the potion tugging at his senses and decided to leave off. He settled down, closed his eyes, and took deep, even breaths as he waited for the potion to claim him. Even from behind his eyelids, he could feel the torches in their sconces growing dim.

“Tell me about your Muggle relations.”

Harry’s eyes popped open, and for a moment he was blind, the only light the faint afterimages burned into his retinas that flashed before him and then slowly faded. He blinked several times, waiting for his vision to adjust to the low light, and then turned his head on his pillow and squinted to try and make out Malfoy just across the way. “What?”

“You’ve got Muggle relations, don’t you? Living ones.”

“I—yes?”

“Was that a question?”

“No, I just—” Harry sighed, massaging the bridge of his nose. He was tired, fighting the potion now, and Malfoy was being deliberately obtuse. “Yes, I’ve got Muggle family. Well, relatives. They live in—”

“Yes, very good. So tell me about them.”

Harry frowned at Malfoy, though he didn’t suspect Malfoy could tell he was being frowned at. “…Why on earth would _you_ want to hear about my Muggle relatives?” He wasn’t sure if it was the part about Malfoy wanting to hear about _Muggles_ or Malfoy wanting to hear about _anything_ to do with Harry’s personal life—outside of rude inquests into his sexual escapades—that was more shocking.

“Because this potion isn’t kicking in quick enough, and I’m confident hearing you drone on about your non-wizarding relations’ petty little lives will be just the ticket. So go on. Regale me.”

And Harry wanted to tell him to shove it, to just close his eyes and wait and sleep would come soon enough. He wanted to say no, to say the potion was working just fine on Harry and bid him good night. 

But this was, like the aforementioned rude inquests, part and parcel of Malfoy’s defence mechanisms, and for tonight at least, Harry could indulge him his snotty whims. So he did not tell Malfoy about his shitty childhood and the abuse he’d suffered at the hands of his caretakers, but he did tell him about the mind-numbingly boring Muggle family he’d spent a decade-plus of his life with: he spoke of his uncle Vernon Dursley, as a Director at a company called Grunnings that manufactured and sold drills; and of his aunt Petunia Dursley, as a nosey, gossipping woman who had for most of Harry’s life supported her family by keeping up the home and raising her son, for very loose definitions of ‘keeping up’ and ‘raising’.

He’d been just about to start on Dudley, when soft, stuttering breathing reached his ears: faint but unmistakable snoring.

Harry doused the torches with a quiet _Nox_, then drew the covers up and let sleep take him.

* * *

He awoke, as he should have expected, to a Stinging Jinx. “Mother_fu—_”

“Good, you’re awake.”

Harry opened his eyes, blinking blearily, to find Malfoy stood at the foot of his bed, already dressed and arms crossed over his chest. His fingers were drumming a nervous rhythm against his elbows, and he had taken a very drawn stance, tight and defensive. 

Harry heaved himself upright slowly, rubbing the heels of his palms in his eyes. “And a very merry Christmas to you… What time is it?”

“Nearly eight. You neglected to rouse on time, so I took the liberty.”

“The potion said ‘a good eight hours’, not ‘_just_ a good eight hours’,” Harry grumbled, though in hindsight, he should probably have set an Alarm Spell so he could be up earlier. Ron had said that lunch would be served at noon, but the implication had been that Harry’s presence would be appreciated well before then. Harry was eager to see the Weasleys as well. Arthur and Percy he saw most days of the week, and Ron too (much more often of late), but the others he generally only got to say hullo to at the holidays. He hadn’t seen Molly in months, back in his own time, as he’d missed his birthday celebration. Would he pop back at the moment he left, he wondered, when he returned? If so, he could probably still make his party. He certainly had time to plan his birthday menu _now_. He squinted at Malfoy, registering anew that he was, in fact, dressed. “…You’re already dressed. How long have you been up?”

“Since five.”

“_Five_?”

Malfoy shrugged. “On again, off again. Rather fitful. Difficult to get back to sleep with you snoring.”

“I do _not_ snore—and people in snoring houses _certainly_ shouldn’t go around throwing st—” Harry cut himself off. It was Christmas, for one, and Malfoy was wrestling with nerves strong enough they’d fought off a healthy dose of Dreamless Sleep for another. He could let him have his delusions. “…Right, I’m getting up.” He began to shuffle out of bed, wincing when his feet hit the cold flagstones. There was a beat of awkward silence, and he glanced over at Malfoy, who was still standing at the foot of his bed, twitching nervously. “…There hasn’t been any word, has there?”

“Of course not. How would anyone be able to find us?” 

He had a point. “Guess we’ll have to…venture out and ask, then, won’t we?”

“I suppose so,” Malfoy said, tone relaxed and flippant and completely at odds with his overall carriage. 

Taking that as his cue to make himself presentable, Harry cast around for the clothes he’d worn the previous evening—only to find that, in the moment he’d had his back turned, the four-poster had disappeared and replaced itself with a wardrobe full of, presumably, his school clothes. Conveniently standing next to it was a tall, handsome folding screen that Harry was evidently meant to use. He glanced back at Malfoy. “…Your doing?”

“Hurry and get dressed!” Malfoy snapped, clearly in no mood for small talk, and Harry hopped to it. He pulled on what he supposed was the most recent Weasley jumper he’d been gifted—one that, by his recollection, currently hung at the back of his bedroom closet, a bit moth-eaten now after nearly a decade. He would be getting a new one from Molly at The Burrow, as he did every year, but like hell was he showing up for lunch in anything but her handiwork, especially after staying on at Hogwarts instead of joining Ron and his family for the bulk of the holidays. He wondered how Ron had explained his absence; they’d traded a few letters back and forth, Pigwidgeon doing his level best but having to split the job with several of the school owls, but he’d never thought to ask.

Once he considered himself presentable, he Vanished the folding screen, hoping very much that the Room knew to put his wardrobe back where it belonged, and steeled himself with a huff. “Ready for this?” he asked Malfoy, slipping his wand into his pocket.

To his surprise, he received not a snippy, superior response along the lines of _I’ve been ready since five, did you not hear me?_ but a broken, stuttering exhalation as Malfoy ran a hand through his hair, eyes closed. “…No.”

Harry heard a crack.

It was, he realised, the sound of Malfoy’s mask starting to chip—smooth porcelain marred by a dark, ruinous run, like his own personal lightning bolt scar that only Harry could perceive.

Harry saw, through this chink in Malfoy’s armour, a flash of something: a glimpse into the future. A future where Malfoy sat, underfed and weak, hunched over in a filthy cell firing off acidic quips until he mustered the courage to ask Harry if it hurt to die. 

He didn’t like that. No, he didn’t like that at all.

“Too bad,” he said, perhaps rougher than he’d intended, and he clapped Malfoy on the shoulder to steer him towards the door. “C’mon, let’s go.”

Malfoy had told Harry not to interfere, so he hadn’t—at least not any further than he’d already interfered—and as such, Malfoy had no right to stand here, looking so scared and broken, when _once again_ it was his own damn fault he was in this situation to begin with. Harry hadn’t come this far—through fucking space-time itself—and worked this hard to help Malfoy build himself into something society might one day accept only to have Lucius somehow screw up his son’s future yet again. 

Whatever was going to come would come, and Harry would be here to help Malfoy put himself back together again. And then they’d keep going. Keep practising and studying and training and brainstorming until they finally got Malfoy’s future properly sorted. It was what Harry did, after all: saved people, even from themselves.

They did not rush to the Headmistress’s office. They walked, sedately, and though they did not drag their feet—Harry wouldn’t let them—they took their time. Malfoy had seemed to rally at Harry’s stern manner rustling him from the Room, but as they approached the third floor, he began to crumble once more, and Harry thought if he reached out and touched him, he might physically fold in on himself.

As addressing his state would only make matters worse, Harry let Malfoy collect himself in silence. It being Christmas morning, the stairwell was quite empty, even with the depleted student population staying on. Right about now, everyone would be down in the Great Hall enjoying a filling breakfast and popping crackers while they waited for Owls to bring gifts from friends and family far-off. 

What if McGonagall wasn’t even in her office? He wasn’t going to send Malfoy into the Great Hall, not when at any moment a delivery owl might drop a _Daily Prophet_ bearing the headline _LUCIUS MALFOY MURDERED OVERNIGHT _smack into the middle of a rasher of bacon. No, if the Headmistress wasn’t receiving visitors, they’d find a quiet, empty classroom in which to wait her out. Molly would forgive his being just a little late, surely.

Too soon, though, they reached the gargoyle statue guarding the entrance to McGonagall’s office, and Harry politely tapped it on its horned cap with his wand. “Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy, here to speak with Professor McGonagall, if she’s in.”

“Password?” the gargoyle growled, blinking blearily at them, as if it had just awoken. 

“Oh—er…” Bugger it, he’d thought her office might be open to all comers during the holidays—but then, it was Christmas morning. She probably didn’t want to be disturbed. What had the phrase been before? He wracked his brain, casting back three months, then lit up: “Argyle socks!”

“Not even close.”

Fuck—but he was not above pleading his case. “Please, we _really_ need to speak with her. It’s important, and it won’t take very long. Have a bit of Christmas spirit, won’t you?”

The gargoyle raked the both of them with a menacing look, sneering, “What’s yer business?”

Conscious of Malfoy’s delicate constitution just now, Harry diplomatically said, “Personal.”

The gargoyle regarded them for a long moment, and then either satisfied with the answer or eager to get back to the nap from which it had been roused, it shifted out of the way to reveal the spiral staircase leading up to the Headmistress’s Tower. Harry presumed this meant McGonagall was indeed in her office, and he glanced back at Malfoy. “You want to go up first, or shall I?”

“Think it fucking matters?” Malfoy muttered, a bit lost and weak, and while Harry had meant the offer to be courteous, it was clear from Malfoy’s tone he thought it a challenge to his courage. 

“Well she likes me.” Or she had, once upon a time. “At least if I’m first up, she’ll be in a good mood and maybe more delicate with the delivery if there’s any bad news to share.” 

Malfoy gave a noncommittal grunt, and Harry took this as the signal to begin the ascent. Up they climbed, wending their way around the tower, until they reached the sturdy jamb fronting the Headmistress’s Office. McGonagall was at her desk, already in full robes and head bowed as her quill scritched furiously over a piece of parchment. Just on the wall behind her hung Dumbledore’s portrait, and he winked at Harry from beneath his cheerfully festooned Santa hat. First the ever-flowing eggnog, and now this—how on earth did portraits come by those sorts of things?

Harry rapped softly on the wood, and McGonagall’s steely gaze flickered up once from her parchment, and then back down again. “Happy Christmas, Potter. Off to visit with Mr. Weasley and his family, then?”

“Er, yes Headmistress, shortly—but first, I—_we_—” He quickly stepped clear of the doorway, revealing Malfoy, who glanced at Harry in panic before he promptly schooled his features into something resembling constipation. “We were wondering—”

“We?” McGonagall raised her head wholly this time, brows knitting before flying up into her wispy hair. “Good gracious, Mr. Malfoy.” Well, it wasn’t the _Happy Christmas_ Harry had received, but it was a start. “What on earth are you—_the both of you_—doing here?” And before Harry could explain the situation, her tone took a quick, sharp turn into suspicious. “So help me, if I have to deal with any _tomfoolery_ from you two on _Christmas Day_—”

“It’s not, Headmistress. Tomfoolery or—or anything like that. Promise!” He could feel Malfoy edging closer to the door and was confident he was already mentally beating a hasty retreat back to the Room, because he never had to deal with his father’s death if no one ever told him about it, right? Schroedinger’s Malfoy, or something like that. “We were only wondering if—”

“Is he dead?” Malfoy spat, nerves jangling his voice, and he seemed stricken he’d even spoke, looking like he very much wanted to claw the words back into his throat.

McGonagall straightened immediately, struggling to her feet from beneath what looked to be several warm knitted blankets draped over her lap. She fumbled with a heavy shawl about her shoulders. “Is _who_ dead? My word, what’s gotten into you two?” She frowned. “…You weren’t at breakfast, either of you. Where have you been?”

“Er, Malfoy…Malfoy had a bad dream, see.” Malfoy pinched him sharply in the side, angled so that McGonagall couldn’t see, but Harry soldiered on; it was a reasonable explanation, even if it did make Malfoy sound a bit loony. “One of those ones that feel so real you could swear it _was_, and now he’s worried something might’ve happened to his father, so… So have you received any word or…or anything? About Lucius Malfoy”

“And…Mr. Malfoy discusses his dreams with…_you_, Mr. Potter?” McGonagall was looking at him like she might have thought he’d gone round the twist, her gaze darting back and forth between him and Malfoy, and he had the distinct, stomach-churning sensation she was drawing all _sorts_ of inappropriate inferences as to how Harry might have learned about Malfoy’s sleeping habits. 

He let her think what she would, though. They had bigger fish to fry. “Please, Professor. Have you heard anything? From Minister Shacklebolt, or Head Auror Robards? The _Prophet_, even, perhaps looking for a quote?”

“Of course not! It’s Christmas morning, Potter! I imagine the Minister is having a nice lie-in.”

“I’m sure he would be, but he might be up, if there were a mur—well, an accident. At Azkaban. Involving a prisoner.”

McGonagall was giving him a very shrewd look now. “…You haven’t been using my Floo without asking, have you, Mr. Potter?”

“What? No! Honestly—”

“No,” she said with finality. “I’ve received no Owls, no Floo calls, nothing of the sort to indicate that Mr. Malfoy’s father has met with any manner of mischief.” She shifted her gaze to Malfoy now, softening a bit. “It was but a dream, Mr. Malfoy. Run down to the Great Hall and get some breakfast in you, and then perhaps pop by the Hospital Wing to see if Madame Pomfrey can find something to settle your nerves, hm?”

Malfoy ducked his head, releasing a haggard breath, and seemed to lean into the jamb, suddenly boneless. “…Yes, Headmistress.”

She nodded, then turned back to Harry, clucking her tongue. “I hope you haven’t been _putting ideas_ into Mr. Malfoy’s head, Mr. Potter.”

“What?” Harry blanched. “Oh—god, no, I swear—” But of course, McGonagall knew well he’d commandeered her Floo for a private audience with Kingsley, so he couldn’t exactly blame her for jumping to what must have seemed like an awfully convenient conclusion. “I swear—I haven’t, I only thought to help—”

“Is that all, gentlemen?” she sighed, settling back into her chair. She gestured to the parchment covering her desk. “The First Years’ Term One essays need seeing to—unless you’re still feeling a helpful urge, Mr. Potter?”

And that was their cue to make themselves scarce. “I…er, better get myself ready to visit The Burrow. If that’s all right, Headmistress? And I’ve asked Aberforth down at the Hog’s Head if I might use his Floo, so I won’t need to disturb you.”

“A Christmas Miracle,” McGonagall muttered dryly, shooing them out and reaching for her quill again. “Happy Christmas, Mr. Potter. Mr. Malfoy.”

“You too, Professor,” Harry offered weakly, trying not to look like he was scurrying for the staircase when he was, in fact, doing just that. How had he walked in here to _help_ Malfoy and wound up nearly getting an earful himself? The things he did for— “Malfoy?” He straightened, just as they’d gone down a few steps, McGonagall’s doorway now out of sight, to find Malfoy hanging back, leaned up against the wall for support. He looked pale, paler than usual, the torches in their sconces throwing bouncing shadows across his sharp features. “Oi, you all right?”

Malfoy nodded mutely, stumbling down another few steps until he’d passed Harry. Harry followed, wand out and a Levitation Charm on his lips in case Malfoy took a tumble. It’d been good, what McGonagall had said, hadn’t it? She hadn’t received word of anything, and surely if Lucius Malfoy had died, Malfoy would’ve been the first to be notified, right? Him and his mum? Kingsley was a good sort; he wouldn’t keep it from Malfoy—

But—god, what if they thought there’d been funny business involved? Well, there had been, of course; Lucius had been _murdered_, after all. But what if they thought…what if they thought Malfoy had something to do with it? Or—_fuck_, Harry? After all the hullaballoo about placing Lucius in solitary, and then moving him back out again because, as Harry had put it, he’d been pretty sure he’d simply misread the tea leaves in his morning cuppa (god, Kingsley was _never_ going to trust his intuition again, after that), he had to be on _several_ watchlists.

But no. No, if that were the case, then he and Malfoy certainly wouldn’t be wandering around free as birds, would they? Harry was starting to accept that perhaps he wasn’t the crack Auror he thought himself to be, but Robards was the real deal. He’d have Harry or Malfoy or _both_ of them in Auror custody with a vial of Veritaserum ready to go. The Ministry, even seven years hence, took their Death Eater inquisitions quite seriously, and Hogwarts students or no—Saviour of the Wizarding World or no—they’d be right on top of things if there were the slightest _hint_ of malfeasance. 

Lucius Malfoy wasn’t dead. He was _alive_. It was Christmas morning, 1998, and Malfoy’s dad was still alive.

Malfoy went down, just crumpled into a heap, and Harry raised his wand—

—until Malfoy started laughing. _Laughing. _Giggling, really, but genuinely giddy, showing a wide mouth full of bright-white teeth. He let his head fall back against the rough stone, sitting there on the bottommost step, and looked up to Harry, still several steps above him. “Why do I want to cry?”

He wasn’t crying. Not yet, at least. His eyes were glassy, though, and red-rimmed, and he was breathing through his mouth in short, sharp bursts, but still grinning almost maniacally. 

“It’s…” Harry stumbled in his speech. “I—I dunno, it’s just a thing. Sometimes your body just…needs a release.”

“I’d rather pull one off, then. Fuck, I don’t want to cry.” He squinted his eyes shut, and Harry thought to remind him he shouldn’t do that, if he didn’t want to start a jag, because that would only stimulate the reflex, but he held his tongue. He kind of wanted to see Malfoy happy-cry, just a little bit. It’d be like watching a car crash in real time. “I fucking hate crying.”

“…Wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. I mean, I’ve already seen you do it the once.”

Malfoy actually laughed again, more open-mouthed but still a bit warbly. “Shit, don’t do that. You’ll set me off.” He rubbed the heels of his palms into his eyes. He practised a few slow, even breaths, looking in his position a bit like a pregnant woman in birthing class. “What are the chances…he was never in any danger to begin with?”

“What?”

“Maybe you really have hit your head, and imagined this time-slipping business. What are the chances, do you think?”

Harry paused, and then was forced to admit, “…Not insignificant, I suppose.” All things considered, didn’t it sound more plausible? That he simply got knocked for a loop in Charms or Defence and dreamed up his entire life for the next seven years? “But we’ve come this far already. What will it hurt, to see it through to the end?”

“To the end?”

“To—you know. You getting your future sorted. Set to where there’s no chance you’ll somehow wind up under a nefarious thumb—”

“Again…”

“Again. What will it hurt?”

“Depends on your definition of pain,” Malfoy muttered to himself, letting his hands fall away. The skin around his eyes glistened with moisture, but he looked to have brought his breathing under control. He struggled to unsteady feet, and Harry fought to keep his hands by his side; Malfoy was being vulnerable enough as it was, he certainly wouldn’t appreciate that proffered hand of Harry’s now. “Suppose you need to finish preparing for your lunch at The Warren, then?”

“The Bur—” Harry started, then caught himself at the crooked little grin Malfoy was wearing. He was in, shockingly, a good mood. Harry had expected relief; he hadn’t expected…whatever this was. Not a crack, like he’d seen earlier, but a layer of his mask peeling off. That, Harry welcomed happily. “What will you do? I don’t expect I’ll Floo back until tomorrow.”

“Sure you’ll have finished shaking all those grimy Weasley hands by then?” Malfoy asked, one brow raised, though he didn’t seem to expect a response, continuing on with a dramatic sigh. “I hadn’t really thought about it. Been a bit—” He hesitated. “Preoccupied.” He gave a shrug. “I suppose I could write to Mother. Wish her a Happy Christmas.”

Harry almost didn’t ask, wary he was stepping in it, but in the end he did, because he was Harry Potter: “Is she abroad, then? Your mum. Just, I wondered…why you weren’t staying with her for the holidays. And—well, I recall she moved to France after your dad passed, but that hasn’t happened now, so…”

To his great shock, Malfoy didn’t pounce on him immediately with a curt _It’s none of your fucking business_. Instead, he seemed to hedge, and Harry could almost see him visibly warring with himself. Like he wanted to open it up, but knew he’d regret it. He finally said, in a tone that suggested he did not agree with the matter, “…She thought I’d be safer, here. That if I left the castle grounds, or strayed beyond perhaps Hogsmeade, I’d be vulnerable to…acts of retribution.”

“From the public?”

“Them. Death Eaters at large. That Hippogriff that tried to maul me in Third Year. Take your pick.”

Malfoy wasn’t meant to know that Buckbeak had escaped the Ministry executioner’s axe. “Er—Buckbeak was put down…”

“Was he, now? Then which one was it I saw featured in an article in Lovegood’s rag not three weeks into Fourth Year? I’d recognise the markings of the beast that nearly felled me anywhere.”

Harry boggled. “You read _The Quibbler_?”

“Of course not. I used it to line Gladiolus’s cage. Caught a glimpse when I Vanished his pellets once.” He smoothed down his rumpled robes. “She’s always been overprotective of me. As if there aren’t students and probably even staff _here_ who wouldn’t rejoice to see me take a Jinx to the face or an untimely tumble down the stairs.” He raked Harry with a cool look. “Yourself included.”

“I believe I have already advised you in no uncertain terms to watch your step on the stairs, so I take offence to the insinuation.” Malfoy rolled his eyes. “And she’s not being overprotective; if someone can get at your dad while _themselves_ incarcerated at Azkaban in my time, I think she had good reason to suspect you might face similar threats outside of Hogwarts.”

“Well _did_ I?” Malfoy challenged. “After I graduated?”

“I dunno,” Harry said. “Seeing as you fucked off to the Continent shortly thereafter. And the Neo-Death Eaters got their hooks into you _eventually_. They might not have Cursed you outright, but they were as much responsible for your untimely demise as the Dementor.”

Malfoy shrank in on himself a bit, and Harry regretted his frankness. They always spoke about Malfoy’s death in the abstract—rarely so directly, so luridly. “…It doesn’t make her mothering any more bearable.”

“Well, given she’s your mother, I reckon she’s entitled to a bit of mothering. However necessary or not you may deem it.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“Heavens forfend you not make known to all and sundry your displeasure with mothering or hovering or coddling.” Harry stepped back out into the hallway from around the gargoyle statue, giving it a little salute of gratitude as it rumbled back into place once Malfoy had joined him. Back in the bright hallway, tall glazed windows letting the bright morning light of a sunny Christmas day filter into the castle, he could still detect a bit of puffiness about Malfoy’s eyes, but the mask was more or less firmly back in place. “So? Your plans?”

Malfoy sighed, scrubbing at his hair in a calculated manner that made it ruffle roguishly. “Yes…I think I will write to her. I haven’t done, since you meddled, and I expect if I don’t do so before the new year, I’ll receive a Howler.”

“Purebloods send Howlers?”

“Purebloods _invented_ Howlers, Potter. Only they were called Obsceniques and involved restrained but scathing excoriations of the parties targeted. They only became vessels of strident braying once they fell into the hands of those lacking the adequate vocabulary to sufficiently vent their displeasure.”

“Pretty sure only half those words you just used actually exist.”

“Says someone liable to send a _Howler_ over an _Obsenique_.” He crossed his arms in thought. “…Perhaps I’ll write to Father as well.” He turned to Harry. “They do allow the prisoners letters, don’t they?”

Harry nodded. “It’ll be picked over by Aurors and such before it’s handed off, but yes, they do. I’m sure he’d be pleased to know you were thinking of him.”

Malfoy wrinkled his nose, and Harry got the sense his attempt at encouragement had been unappreciated. Harry decided not to do it again; it felt odd wishing well to someone who’d tried to kill him—directly or otherwise—on multiple occasions.

“Well,” Malfoy said with a huff of finality. “I suppose I’ll go see if there’s any breakfast to be had.” He raked Harry with a look. “And you ought to make yourself presentable before your Christmas bruncheon. Your hair looks like shit.”

Harry patted at his hair, frowning. “…It looks the same as it always does.”

“My point exactly.”

Harry showed him a finger. “Tell your dad I said hi.”

“He’ll have a stroke,” Malfoy said. “He’s only just survived past the day he was meant to die, and now you want to kill him again?”

“Hey, one good turn deserves another.” He smiled to show he was mostly speaking in jest—mostly. “Go have breakfast. And watch for owls bearing good tidings.”

“Bearing _what_?”

Harry set off for the stairwell with a backwards wave, leaving Malfoy to mull over this fresh mystery on his own. 

He made his way up to his room in the near-empty Gryffindor Tower. His bed and wardrobe were back where they belonged, if they’d ever been gone to begin with—he still couldn’t tell how the Room had managed that bit of magic—so Harry packed a small overnight bag, shrank his friends gifts down to fit in his pocket, and set off for Hogsmeade.

By the time he reached the Hog’s Head, slowed down by the snow-crusted ground and ice-slick paths, Aberforth was up and about, enjoying a private breakfast all to himself in his little apartment on the second floor. He poked his head out the front window, glowering down at Harry, who waved up at him and wished him, “Happy Christmas, Ab.”

“Yeah, same to you, Potter—come on, come on.” Aberforth waved his wand in Harry’s general direction, and the door to the pub creaked open. “Inside, quickly; don’t want anyone thinkin’ I’m open for business.”

Harry was only too happy to duck inside, out of the chill, and after spelling his shoes clean of the snowpack he’d tromped through, he scaled the stairs to Aberforth’s den. A fire crackled merrily in the hearth, and Ariana smiled down at Harry from her portrait with a polite little wave. He waved back, and Aberforth snorted softly from his spot at his little dinette. 

“Christmas was always her favourite time of year.”

Aberforth had never struck Harry as one for idle conversation, so Harry indulged him. “Was it?”

“She liked decorating the tree. Loved the pretty baubles and tinsel and fairy lights—turned Albus onto Christmas crackers, even.” Harry thought of Dumbledore’s portrait, proudly bearing the Santa hat. “It kept her quiet and distracted, so mother encouraged it. Our home was a sight around the Solstice, it was.”

Harry cast his eye around Aberforth’s den, noting the handsome little fir standing in the corner beside Aberforth’s dusty, uncomfortable easy chair. It was decked out far more elegantly than one might have expected of a man of Aberforth’s means, and Harry smiled to himself. “I’d like to have seen it.”

“Nah, it’s nothin’ compared to what you lot put on up at the castle each year.” Aberforth took a swig from a mug of something Harry suspected was not coffee and waved to the fireplace. “Floo powder’s up on the mantle. Make sure you’re back before noon tomorrow, unless you want to wade through a bunch of louts trying to get extra drinking in after the one day off.”

Harry gave Aberforth a small salute, then made for the fireplace, suddenly eager to be surrounded by family and warmth and love—and feeling inexplicably guilty for it.

He tossed a handful of Floo powder into the brightly burning flames, called out _The Burrow!_ and stepped through—

—and out into the middle of an argument.

“—you’d love it if you just gave it a chance!” Ron was saying to a weary Hermione. “The Cannons have _really_ impro—_mate!_” Ron leapt on him with a fierce hug, and Hermione waited impatiently for her turn when he released Harry, ducking in for a quick squeeze of her own. “About time you showed up!”

“Molly’s been a mess the past few days, evidently,” Hermione said with a soft smile. “I got in just an hour ago myself and was promptly put on dusting duty. She wanted the place in tip-top condition when you arrived.”

“Well you’ve done a fine job,” Harry said, casting his eye around the room. The pictures in the frames had changed over the years, but otherwise, the Weasleys’ living room was much the same as it always had been. Harry found he was relieved by this bit of familiarity. “Happy Christmas.”

“And to you,” Hermione said, looping her arm through his. “C’mon, we’re sure to catch hell from Molly if we don’t present you straight away.”

“She wouldn’t let us eat until you got here,” Ron said. “So good thing you showed up when you did.”

Harry winced, knowing the hour was getting nearer to lunch time now than breakfast, and Ron did _not _like missing meals if he could avoid it. “Forgot to set the wand. Timer Charm didn’t wake me up when I meant to,” was his breezy excuse. If Ron and Hermione exchanged meaningful glances suggesting they didn’t buy it, Harry didn’t see, for he was quickly enveloped in one of Molly Weasley’s bone-crushing hugs as she drew him in. 

“Oh, Merry _Christmas_, Harry! It’s been too long!”

“Only—been a few—months, hasn’t it?” He would’ve been here for his birthday—at least, he ought to have been, right? He was pretty sure he’d celebrated his eighteenth at the Weasleys’ place, even if it hadn’t been the raucous affair it might have been had it not come so soon on the heels of a war the family had paid for in blood.

“I said what I said,” Molly sniffed, shoving him away to hold him at arm’s length. “I swear, you get taller every time I see you! Haven’t been spiking your pumpkin juice with a Swelling Solution, have you?”

“Definitely not a Swelling Solution,” Ron snickered under his breath, swiping a warm muffin from atop the mountain that Molly had just set on the table. 

Harry delivered and received his Christmas greetings from the rest of the family as they made their way in. Evidently Bill and Fleur were last-minute Christmasing in France with Fleur’s family this year, to Molly’s overt displeasure, but everyone else seemed to have squeezed into The Burrow for the holidays.

“Just as well you were only able to join us for the one evening, Harry,” George said with a wry smile. “You might’ve had to kip in the garden shed.”

“Nonsense!” Molly gasped, laying a hand on Harry’s shoulder protectively. “Don’t listen to him, dear. We would have _loved_ to have had you here the whole of the holidays—why weren’t you able to join Ron and Hermione riding back on the Hogwarts Express again?”

“Er…” Harry started, glancing to his friends in panic, and Ron interrupted with an angry growl around the second muffin he’d shoved into his mouth that sounded something like _Mum! Breakfast! Daylight’s burning!_

Against all expectations, the breakfast table managed to fit all present Weasleys and their assorted significant others. There was a brief, sombre toast to Fred, who it was suggested would be sore to have missed the biannual de-Gnoming of the garden. “At least he’ll always hold the record for farthest toss…” Ron recalled with a forced smile. “Pretty sure he cheated, to get that kind of air.”

After breakfast, to lighten up the atmosphere, it was decided they would exchange gifts, which suited Harry just fine. Ron was thrilled by his new copy of _Snitches on Pitches_, a pop-up Quidditch tactics book that included figures who rose off the page to demonstrate manoeuvres, and Hermione was just as happy now as she’d been the first time around with _Housecraft: A History_, exploring the creation, adoption, and evolution of now-common household spells. He tried very hard to act surprised with his own gifts of new Quidditch gloves (and Hermione’s blushing admission: “Ginny helped me pick them out.”) and a professional wand holster (“Dad says this is the same brand as what the Aurors at the Ministry use!”), but he was pretty sure his friends saw through the ruse.

Molly sent them outside to work up an appetite for lunch, and though they attempted a game of Quidditch, it became clear after a few goals that no one’s heart was really in it—least of all George, now down a Chasing partner—so they took turns instead de-Gnoming the garden, exploring Arthur’s shed full of Muggle bric-a-brac, and (for those with vocations, at least) complaining about work.

“So,” Hermione said, as they picked their way through the garden, on the lookout for bulbous heads poking about. “How is Malfoy doing? And…his father?”

“Er, he’s all right. The both of them.”

“What?” Hermione straightened, a frown tugging at her lips. “You mean to say—”

“He’s still kicking around?” Ron hissed, chucking a freshly caught gnome over the garden wall, where it disappeared with a waning _Wheeeee!_ “I thought you said he was supposed to…_you know_.” Ron slid a finger over his throat. 

“He _was_,” Harry said, stepping closer to the two of them. “But, I mean, I did meddle a bit in _his_ life too, remember? Maybe it was enough to change things? Or maybe when Kingsley took him out of solitary, he put him in a different part of the prison than where he was meant to be, so whoever offed him in my time didn’t get the chance. Honestly any of a dozen different things might’ve happened.”

Hermione bit her lip, and Ron elbowed her gently. “See? Tweaking the timeline didn’t hurt. It even saved a life. Not a life I think _needed_ saving, mind, but all the same.”

“Did it? Or have we just not seen the consequences yet?”

Harry frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means what I said: it might be…I dunno, like a domino effect.”

“Tottenham effect?” Ron said.

“No—domino. Like this one change Harry’s made, it might have saved Lucius’s life, true, but we can’t know what _that_ might affect going forward. Perhaps now, Lucius later gets out somehow and goes on to hurt someone. Someone who wouldn’t have otherwise been hurt, if Lucius had died how and when he was meant to.”

Harry’s head started to ache, and he rubbed at it with a groan. “We really have to talk about this on _Christmas_? I get where you’re coming from, but still…” Harry sighed. “It was a good thing. For Malfoy, at least. He was really, really relieved…”

“He was?” Ron asked, looking rather dubious. “Thought he didn’t like his old man. Always seemed more scared of him than anything. Definitely a mummy’s boy, that one.”

“I guess it’s complicated,” Harry said with a shrug. He reflected that he probably shouldn’t have mentioned how Malfoy had taken the news about his dad. It had seemed a very private thing at the time, and he felt like he’d betrayed some sort of confidence, sharing it with Ron and Hermione. “Hey, so what were you arguing about when I came through the Floo?”

“Oh!” Ron turned on Harry, bright eyes clearly eager for support. “Get this! Hermione doesn’t think _Quidditch tickets_ count as a good Christmas present! You’re with me, right? It’s a perfect date spot!”

“Er,” Harry said, recalling suddenly Ron’s disastrous proposal to Hermione at a Cannons’ match not two years hence. It was a subject of good-natured ribbing now, but it had nearly prompted Hermione to turn him down, as he’d lost the ring after joining the crowd in leaping to their feet to celebrate Gudgeon actually catching the Snitch, in lieu of slipping it on his fiancée’s finger. “For…some.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ron asked, giving Harry a shrewd look. “You know something we don’t.”

“I know lots of things you don’t, mate.” Harry clapped him on the shoulder. “Let’s chuck a few gnomes in Fred’s honour, shall we?”

After the garden had been cleared—with no gnomes harmed, thanks to discreetly cast Levitation Charms on Hermione’s part—Molly cast a _Sonorous _from the kitchen door summoning them all to lunch. 

They feasted, napped, tried out a few of the more ambitious tricks in Ron’s new book, helped Molly prep for dinner, and sat by the Wireless in a post-prandial stupor listening to wizarding Christmas carols piping over the wireless. It was not the best Christmas Harry had ever had, he didn’t think, but it had been remarkably more bearable than he recalled it being the first time around. Given the only tangible difference now was that he’d spent the better portion of it with Malfoy at Hogwarts, away from the oppressive sadness of a family still trying to put itself back together after an inexplicable tragedy, he supposed he shouldn’t have been all that surprised. 

He’d had years to mourn Fred, to look at George and just see _George_ and not half of the Weasley twins, and though it left a guilty pit in his stomach, he was not keen to join his friends in their return to loss and emptiness. It wouldn’t be good for Harry _or _the Weasleys, really. He could still support them, though, and wrapping his arms around Ron on the one side of him and Hermione on the other, he squeezed, closed his eyes, and drifted off to the smooth warbling of Celestina Warbeck.

* * *

“You really should stay,” Ron wheedled over coffee the next morning. Hermione was rubbing an herbal lotion of some sort into his neck and shoulders, as they’d all woken up with cricks after sleeping curled around each other on the couch. “It’s only another week or so, right? And—” He dropped his voice, glancing about surreptitiously; Molly was humming carols to herself at the stovetop, Ginny at her side, and Percy was the only brother so far who’d roused, though he was presently nodding off over the morning’s copy of _The Daily Prophet_ in the living room. “—And Malfoy’s dad’s off the hook now, so no need to hang around babying him.”

“I don’t _baby_ him,” Harry said. If he wasn’t getting accused of coddling on one front, he was getting it on the other. “I told you, I wanted to be there to support him, make sure he didn’t backslide, in case…in case his dad, you know.” Ron helpfully mimed slicing his throat again. “Yeah. That.”

“And he hasn’t. So—” Ron gestured to the table. “Stay.”

The thing was, Harry _could_. He could easily send an owl or Patronus to McGonagall and tell her he’d decided to spend the rest of his holidays with the Weasleys and would be back at the beginning of the term on the Hogwarts Express with his classmates. There was absolutely nothing stopping him from doing so.

Except himself. Because, even now, he was…well, he didn’t know how to describe it. Anxious, almost. Nervous. Not because he thought there was anything nefarious happening up at the school—oh Peeves might be giving Filch a hard time, naturally, but that would be the extent of any mischief being made inside the castle. 

Harry simply hadn’t spent this long away from the Room—away from Malfoy—since he’d taken up the noble cause of righting Malfoy’s future, and while he was hardly labouring under the delusion that twenty-four hours away would undo all of his hard work (he _did_ have a measure of faith in Malfoy to stay out of trouble for at least a day), it still nagged at him, a siren call summoning him back. 

He knew if he tried to explain it to Ron and Hermione, they wouldn’t understand (or worse, they _might_ understand), but he’d always hoped they would support him. He could feel Ron’s confusion growing, though, and his patience thinning. Hermione, too, was now terribly interested in her own coffee mug, taking delicate sips and avoiding Harry’s eye as he looked to her for help defusing the situation.

He ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it. It was going to look like shit once he got back to the castle, but as Malfoy had said: it always looked like shit. “You know I would, mate. But—”

“But you can’t,” Ron muttered, tapping his wand against his mug as it refilled itself with fresh coffee. The curling tendrils of steam obscured his face, but Harry knew he was still giving Harry a long, unhappy look. “He doesn’t deserve it, you know.”

“Ron…” Hermione chided softly.

“Well he _doesn’t_. And you agree with me.” Hermione flushed, pursing her lips.

“That’s _not_ what I said. I said—” She swallowed her words, guilt in her eyes. “…I said he’d probably just squander whatever second chance Harry was trying to give him. But it’s not the same as saying he didn’t deserve it!”

Harry blinked slowly at the both of them, processing their arguments. “…You think I’m wasting my time with him.”

“_No_,” Hermione said, as Ron nodded, “Exactly. He gets it now.”

Harry sat back in his chair, drumming his fingers over the table. He could hear, in the stories above, the rustling and creaking of the rest of the family finally rousing as the tantalising scent of Molly’s breakfast spread began to waft their way. He didn’t want to leave on poor terms with Ron and Hermione, but he needed them to see that what he was doing was _worth it_, worth it to Harry, even if to no one else. 

“The thing is—the thing is right now, for me, for _this_ version of me…he’s the _only_ thing that matters. The only thing worth spending _any_ of my time on. And I get that you don’t understand that, or that you don’t agree. But he is, quite literally, the very reason I exist here.” He took a breath, locking eyes with the both of them in turn. “…I know I haven’t been a very good friend to either of you these past few months, and that’s on me, it really is. I’ve…gotten used to working things out on my own, seeing as we’re all adults with our own lives and problems that only rarely intersect now. So I’ve maybe forgotten what it means to lean on you, and have you support me, no matter how insane whatever I’m attempting may be. But _don’t_—” He cut himself off, lest he raise his voice, and consciously tempered his tone. “…Don’t tell me I’m wasting my time, or that he doesn’t deserve it, or that it’s going to blow up in my face. You wouldn’t say those things, you wouldn’t feel that way, if you’d seen the future I’ve seen for him. If you’d stood there, two feet from him, and watched him—” He cut himself off again, this time because it wasn’t his story to tell. “Just let me do this, please. Let me see it through. Let me…let me be Harry Potter. I’m pretty good at it.”

Molly swanned in carrying a platter nearly half the size of the entire table, piled high with piping hot pancakes. “Ron, be a dear and Summon the syrup, would you?”

Ron reached for his wand, expression torn. “It’s not you being you we’re worried about, mate. It’s him being him.”

After breakfast, Harry delivered his goodbyes to the rest of the Weasleys first, promising with no conviction he’d be back to visit after school ended. With any luck, he’d have Malfoy sorted well before then and be back in his proper timeline raising hell. He wrapped up the visit with long, tight hugs for Ron and Hermione. “I’ll see you back at school, yeah?”

“Yeah, of course,” Hermione said, a bit breathy. “We’ve missed you, you know. It’s not the same, spending the holidays apart.”

“I know…” Harry said, suddenly apologetic; he was ruining what little holiday time they had to spend together. He dropped his voice. “…I did mean it, before. I’m sorry about…about not being around, about being—preoccupied.”

“You’ve always been ‘preoccupied’ with Malfoy,” Ron said with a wry kind of leer. “This is a whole other level.”

Harry had to give him that. “…But he _is_ worth it. I know you don’t see it, but just… It matters, that things turn out different for him this time.”

“Tottenham effect?” Ron said, and Harry snorted, nodding. He wasn’t wrong, after all.

“Yeah, we’ll call it that.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

When he Flooed back to the Hog’s Head, Aberforth was sitting in his easy chair by the fire. He raised a cup of coffee to Harry in mock toast. “Morning, Potter.”

“Morning, Ab. Thanks for letting me use your Floo.”

“Just don’t make a habit of it,” he grumbled, though he had that familiar Dumbledore twinkle in his eye that said he could pretty easily be convinced to do so again, if pressed. 

“I’ll try not to,” Harry said, and with a grateful little salute, he slipped down the stairs and out onto High Street, marching double-time for the castle.

He made for Gryffindor Tower first to drop off his overnight bag and the gifts from his friends—and found a box waiting for him on his bed. It was nondescript: wrapped in green and red foil paper and tied with a gold ribbon. There was no tag to mark its sender, but Harry had an inkling—one that was confirmed when he tore away the paper and lifted the lid of the box to reveal a big flashy badge with _Proud Member of H.A.R.R.Y._ emblazoned on the face. Under it, tucked into the tissue paper lining the box, was a note written on heavily embossed cardstock that said, in a script so fancy he could barely make it out, “_I do revile him_.”

Harry grinned to himself as he fastened the badge to his shirt, marching down to the Common Room with his head held high. One of the second-year students—god, had he been so weedy himself at that age?—who’d stayed on for the holidays poked his head up from one of the reading couches, giving Harry a nervous wave as he walked past. He frowned in bemusement when he saw Harry’s badge, a hesitant smile ticking at his lips. “…What’s ‘H.A.R.R.Y.’?” Immediately, a tinny little ditty began playing, and the second-year recoiled in confusion, clutching his Transfiguration text to his chest as a shield. “I—Is it meant to do that?”

“Oh, I expect so,” Harry said, already humming the tune to himself, earworm that it was. It was a fantastically complicated piece of charmwork—too complicated, in fact, to have been accomplished with a hamstrung Ministry-issued wand. Now wasn’t Malfoy glad Harry hadn’t shoved that wand up his arse like he’d told him to day one?

He didn’t bother checking the Map—where else was Malfoy going to be, really? He asked the badge ‘what’s H.A.R.R.Y.’ three more times on his way to the Room of Requirement, until he had its ditty memorised, and wondered if there were lyrics to go along with it. Probably there were. Possibly they were dirty. Definitely they were potshots at Harry.

He was still humming it when he strode into the Room, the badge proudly brandished. Malfoy was curled up in Harry’s armchair, an oversized mug of something warm at his elbow, reading the book on wandless magic Harry had gifted him for Christmas.

“I like my theme song,” Harry said, conjuring up Malfoy’s atrocious acid-green divan and flopping down. “Did you miss me?”

“It’s not your theme song,” Malfoy said, taking a calm sip from his mug and turning the page slowly. “It’s the H.A.R.R.Y. official anthem. And don’t flatter yourself. I was thrilled at the privacy you fucking off afforded me.” He snapped the book shut and placed the mug on a sidetable. “For twenty-four glorious hours I was able to return to a moment when my life had not been invaded by time-hopping Aurors with saviour complexes.”

Harry draped himself over the arm of the divan, grinning. “You missed me. You were bored out of your skull.”

“I did not. I was not.”

“Did you write to your dad? Or your mum? Did she send you anything for Christmas?” He glanced around the room, though he supposed any gifts would probably be tucked safely away in Malfoy’s dormitory down in the Dungeons.

“I did—she did, but—” Malfoy gave him a hard, wary look. “…What’s with the interrogation?”

“What interrogation?”

“_This_ interrogation. You’re being…_chatty_. And inquisitive. It’s very off-putting. Stop it.”

“I’m not _interrogating_ you. I’m catching up. You can ask me questions, if you want.”

“I don’t.”

“Because you don’t want to sound ‘chatty’?”

“Because I don’t care.” 

“Well, I _do_ care,” Harry said. “So?”

Malfoy sighed, throwing his head back. “I received an automated Ministry response affirming their receipt of my letter for ‘Prisoner Malfoy’, and that was that. Mother informed me that my correspondence had been lacking of late and that she would be expecting more regular messages in the new year.”

“That’s it?” Harry frowned. “Not even a _Happy Christmas_?”

“It was written on very festive stationery,” was his explanation. He then snapped his fingers, and a polished silver cloche Harry hadn’t noticed before zipped into his hand. Malfoy carefully removed the lid, revealing a chocolate box in the shape of a peacock, its plumage made of what looked to be pulled sugar and the eyes on its tail dotted with chocolate confections. “And of course.”

“‘Of course’?”

“Well she sends me sweets every holiday, you must have noticed.”

And oh, Harry had noticed, now that he thought about it. Malfoy held the plate out expectantly, and Harry wondered if he was being offered a piece. It seemed almost a shame to eat it, so pretty was the thing. “Er, may I?”

“You think I’m going to eat this all myself? I’d be bouncing off the walls, not to mention the tragedy that would befall this figure.”

“Here’s a bright thought: you could share with your friends.”

“Well I haven’t _got_—” Malfoy started snippily, then bit his tongue. “…Everyone’s on holiday,” he said, in the end, slow and dangerous, and Harry thought he could handle a little danger, right about now.

“I’m not. I’m right here.”

And Malfoy laughed, a bright, cruel bark. “Good gad, Potter. Don’t be delusional. We’re hardly _friends_.”

“No?” Harry said, all innocence, and Malfoy glowered at him.

“No. Passing acquaintances at _most_. I’m practically your pet; I’ve more in common with your _owl_ than anything in Gryffindor robes.”

“Hedwig’s dead,” Harry said, evenly enough it even sounded to him like he was finally all right with it.

“So am I, as I hear it.”

It was Christmas, so he let Malfoy’s black humour slide. “But—you made me this lovely Christmas present.” Harry frowned down at his badge, polishing the face with his sleeve so it shone. “And I’ve been mulling it over for a while, actually, so I think this makes it official now.”

Malfoy slapped the lid back onto the cloche and sent it flying back to its table. He held a hand out, snapping his fingers insistently. “Give it back, then, I’ll destroy it at once.”

Harry covered the badge, protective. “Absolutely not. It’s mine. It was a gift from my friend.”

“And what if,” Malfoy said, with a glittering smile that didn’t seem very warm, “I don’t want to _be_ friends with you?”

“Everyone wants to be friends with me. Why wouldn’t you?”

“Well you’ve just said it: everyone wants to be friends with you. Depreciated value.”

“No, everyone _wants_ to be friends with me. I’m rather selective of those I let actually _be _friends with me. So really, it doesn’t make economic sense for you not to be my friend.”

Malfoy glowered at him. “…Well I don’t _want_ to be friends with you.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” Malfoy snapped. “Because we aren’t _meant_ to be! You had your chance, seven years back—”

“Fourteen.”

“_Fourteen years back_, so—just—_accept it_. And stop _trying_. It’s rather pathetic, especially for a man of your years.”

Harry let his head flop back against the divan’s plush cushioning; Malfoy really had a deft hand when it came to conjuring furniture, even if his colour palette left something to be desired. “Dunno if it’s escaped your attention, but I’ve kind of got a thing about hopeless causes? And I don’t really like being told I can’t do something. ‘Specially not when I want to.” He shrugged. “And who decides whether or not something’s ‘meant to be’? You aren’t meant to live to see twenty-six, either, but I intend to do something about that as well.”

Malfoy neck and ears were flushing, now; he went all pink and flustered when he got emotional, which made it difficult for him to hide when something was getting under his skin. It was unfortunate for Malfoy—but fortunate for Harry. Now they could both be open books the other could read with ease.

“…I’m not your friend, Potter. And I don’t want to be. Delude yourself, if it pleases you, but don’t expect the same from me.”

And Harry was all right with that. Nothing with Malfoy was ever easy—but that was what made it worthwhile. He thought of Ron and Hermione, their insistence he was wasting his time, that Malfoy didn’t deserve these efforts. But it was, Harry understood on some level, not entirely _about_ Malfoy. It was a bit about Harry, too. About his own wants and needs and desires. What he sought out of life, what _he_ thought was worthwhile.

He wasn’t wasting his time with Malfoy, any more than he wasted his time practising new Quidditch manoeuvres. Nothing _good_ or _fun_ was ever all that easy, and that was what made them worth it, wasn’t it? When you looked down at your works, saw achievement, and felt pride thrumming warm and solid in your chest. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Draco,” Harry said with a smile that only grew wider when Draco rolled his eyes with a disgusted scoff and reached once more for his book on wandless magic.


	11. Chapter 11

Things seemed to pick up after Christmas, now they no longer had the looming possibility of Lucius Malfoy’s imminent demise hanging over them, and between the start of a new term, weekly DA meetings, and the professors evidently trying to cram the rest of their N.E.W.T. coursework in before the spring thaw, January was soon a distant memory. Respite came from an unexpected quarter, though, as the weekend of Valentine’s Day saw the DA meeting attendance cut down to a paltry few.

Rather than being disappointed his charges weren’t taking their training seriously, Harry found himself relieved that the couples had all taken their business elsewhere, instead of distracting one another during practise sessions, as had been a frequent occurrence of late. Ron and Hermione, Harry had been dismayed to learn, were some of the worst offenders, though he chalked it up to most of the spells they were practising being old hat for them. 

Still, he was glad for the respite; everyone had returned from the holidays utterly mad, couples cleaving to one another as if the end of the world were approaching and not just the end of their school year. “Well, some of them might not see each other again for a while—maybe ever,” Ron reasoned. “Can you blame them for wanting to make the most of the time they’ve got left, before they’re flung to the four corners?”

And no, Harry supposed he could not, but that didn’t keep him from breathing a sigh of relief that on this Saturday of Valentine’s Day, he was safe inside the Room of Requirement, brushing up on his _Levicorpus_ aim with all the other bachelors and bachelorettes, rather than risking a jaunt down to Honeydukes, even if they _were_ having a fantastic sale on Valentine’s Day candies and confections right about now.

The reduced attendance, however, meant even fewer Slytherins than usual, and Harry could count those in attendance, across all years, on a single hand today. He sidled up to Draco, who was monitoring from a distance two of the three Slytherins in attendance to be certain they didn’t break each other’s necks. There’d been a near miss already with one of the Hufflepuffs nearly flinging a Ravenclaw First Year into the wall, and Draco was, bemusingly enough, awfully protective over his Housemates.

“…Parkinson’s not coming today?” he said, making conversation. Clearly she wasn’t, but she’d been pretty good about attending regularly thus far, so her absence was notable. 

Draco’s shoulders went tight, and a faint crease formed at the bridge of his nose, a sure sign he was discomfited. “…She said not to expect her.”

And _oh_, now Harry saw the picture. “She’s, er, got plans then?”

Draco cut him a look, then let his eyes fall away, back to the practising students. “She’s a Slytherin. We’re _rife_ with plans,” he said with a practised sniff. His cool words, though, belied the grey tinge to his pallor, and the way he was leaning against the wall in a pose that was less disaffected and more nauseated. 

Harry tried, very hard, not to notice Parvati was absent as well. He told himself it was only a coincidence; Slughorn had assigned them a twenty-inch essay on Veritaserum due by the end of the month, and in all likelihood she was only getting an early start.

After all, it was one thing to partner up on projects with Slytherins, even become chummy with them—but it was another thing entirely to get _romantically _entangled with them. They were all snide and sarcastic with walls a mile high and thick as elephant hide, so that you never knew what they were really thinking, not if they didn’t want you to know. And in the odd moment when they _did_ let you inside those walls? God, but they were unaccountably _bitter_.

Though, on consideration, Harry supposed there was _some_ accounting for the bitterness, considering the last time they’d trained in the Room like this, Slytherins hadn’t even been invited. 

Still, it was trying enough on Harry’s patience just being _friends_ with someone like Malfoy—_Draco_, he had to remind himself when he slipped—anything more would be ever so much more trouble than it could possibly be worth. Parvati was, he remained convinced, quite off her rocker if she was dallying with the likes of Parkinson. 

He supposed these thoughts must have brought a look of some sort to his features, for Draco elbowed him sharply with a frown. “What’s _that _look for?”

Harry rubbed his arm; it was covered in bruises from Draco’s pointy elbows by now, as he seemed convinced Harry’s attention could only be commanded by physical assault. “What look?”

“That one you were wearing just now. You looked like you’d smelled something foul, and if I have to hear you whinge _one more time_ about however much cologne I choose to wear, I swear to Merlin I’ll—”

“Just thinking what a handful Slytherins can be. But never mind that now, you’ve gone and changed my view.”

Draco seemed to wilt, as if disappointed he’d been denied the opportunity to argue once more the merits of practically bathing in fancy French cologne every morning. “Oh because it’s just a joy and a delight putting up with _Gryffindors_?”

“Oi,” Harry protested, sharply enough it drew a few eyes, and Harry waved them off, directing them back to their tasks. He kept his voice soft as he continued, “This Gryffindor literally moved heaven and earth for you, you know. I’d say you’re damn lucky to have one in your life. ‘Specially seeing as you _have_ a life now.” He tried to keep his tone light—it was a dangerous sport, teasing Draco; one never knew when their words might be mistaken and backfire. 

Sure enough, Draco gave him a strange, unreadable look, then rolled his eyes and ran his tongue over his teeth in irritation. “Are you going to lord that over me for the rest of my existence, however short or long it may be?”

“Long,” Harry said. “It’s going to be _long_. And yes, I fully intend to, so prepare yourself.”

Draco let his head fall back against the flagstones, favouring Harry with a lopsided sort of half-smile that said he was reluctantly amused with the conversation and hated himself for it. “And you wonder why we find it a chore to put up with you lot.”

Draco’s not-quite-a-smile was catching, and Harry felt light in the head and heart. Things were _good_, all things considered. Sure, he still had to work out how on earth he was going to undo the Ouroboros’s magic, and sure, they weren’t out of the woods yet as far as Draco’s future was concerned, and sure, Draco still called him ‘Potter’ almost maliciously even though Harry had been calling him ‘Draco’ for nearly two months now—he was _going_ to get that ‘Harry’ if it was the last thing he did—but…things were actually, on the whole, good.

So, of course, that was when it all went to shit.

It was a stormy, dreary day in March—the sort where you didn’t even want to get out of bed, let alone go outside. Harry would have liked to have spent the whole day playing Seeker’s games and practising casting in the Room, but as it was a school day, he only had Potions and Transfiguration to look forward to, with perhaps some free time in the evening—though he suspected Draco would rather see him spend his time remixing his Veritaserum antidote than join him in quick game or three. He’d recently had the Room throw a calendar up on the wall, marking the rapidly dwindling number of days until N.E.W.T.s were upon them. Harry had tried to take it down, but it was evidently fitted with a Permanent Sticking Charm, and not in all his years of owning Grimmauld Place had he yet learned how to undo the damn spell.

So his day had already been off to a poor start, but Harry was hoping that lunch would help him get his second wind, and he might at least manage to bully Dean and Seamus into a friendly game of Gobstones before Transfiguration convened in the afternoon.

Draco finished his meal first—he always did; both because he ate quickly and because he ate so little—and quietly excused himself from the Slytherin tables, Parkinson giving him a distracted wave of dismissal and Zabini thoroughly engrossed in his roast beef and pastrami. 

Ten paces from the entrance, though, he was waylaid by a fraught-looking McGonagall, who stumbled into the Great Hall looking like she’d been blown there by the spring storm. Her grey hair was frizzy and unkempt, as if she’d only just woken and not had time to tame it. It was unsettling, seeing their Headmistress so out of sorts, and Harry sat a little straighter, joining the rest of the gawking masses watching with probing, curious eyes to see what new mischief Draco Malfoy had become embroiled in.

She went for Draco immediately, wrapping an arm none-too-gently around his shoulders and leaning close to whisper something in his ear before shepherding him from the Hall. Draco let himself be dragged along, barely flinching when she barked back, “Horace! If you would be so kind?” and inclined her head in indelicate instruction for the Potions professor to join them. 

Harry followed them with his eyes—but only his eyes, even if his knee was bouncing up and down beneath the table, ready to send Harry leaping to his feet in pursuit. They still largely kept to themselves outside of the Room—though certainly not because Harry had suggested it. Draco had been adamant on this point: “And render myself a prime target for your sycophants’ foolishness? I think _not_.” Harry was still working on getting him to agree to attend the Gryffindor-Hufflepuff match the coming weekend, and prospects were looking decidedly dismal.

He felt a spike of worry lance through him when Slughorn bustled past, tugging the napkin from where he’d tucked it into his collar as he went and Vanishing it with a whisper. Once the door slammed shut behind him, the Great Hall devolved into scandalised whispers, and Harry’s mind started firing on all cylinders.

This was new. This was different. He didn’t recall this happening before, in his own Eighth Year, and while his memory had proven spotty at times, he’d always been hyperaware of Draco and was certain he would’ve remembered the sight of Draco being shuttled quickly and quietly from the Hall before disappearing down the corridor in a flurry of robes.

No. No, this hadn’t happened before, which meant the timeline was being rewritten, yet again. Something had happened—Harry had changed something, or something had changed because of him.

He wanted to think—and tried to tell himself, as he mutely finished off his cheese sandwich—that it could very well be good news. Maybe the Ministry had reconsidered its sentencing guidelines and decided to grant Draco permission to hold an untracked wand again. Or maybe they were relaxing his restrictions on international travel, so he’d be allowed to join his mother in France or Italy or Switzerland or wherever it was people like the Malfoys kept their well-appointed villas for retreating from the public eye.

It might have been any of those things. But there was a pit, heavy and tasting of iron, in Harry’s stomach that told him _no_. This was bad, very bad. Something was wrong, and it was, in all likelihood, his fault.

The sick feeling stuck with him through the end of lunch and his free period; he lacked the stomach to hit up any of his friends for games and instead passed the hour napping fitfully in his room.

He set off for the Transfiguration classroom early, hoping to corner McGonagall before class started and prise from her any information he could, when Seamus grabbed him as they passed one another at the Fat Lady’s portrait. “Did’ya hear, Harry?” he breathed, scandalised. His blue eyes were shining with excitement, and the grin he wore was a wicked one that didn’t, to Harry, look very happy at all.

“Hear what?” Harry asked, swallowing. He wished he hadn’t; he wished he’d just dismissed Seamus politely and rushed off to Transfiguration. He could still catch McGonagall, could still—

“Someone’s offed Malfoy’s dad!”

The pit in Harry’s stomach began to rot and ferment with frightening speed, churning his insides until he just wanted to sink to his knees and sick up.

Seamus was still talking, rattling off gossip in his thick brogue such that Harry could only catch every other word. “—_ophet_’s doing a rush edition, but it’s already leaked on the Wireless! Y’think it’s to do with all the nasty stuff he did under You-Know-Who? Maybe someone getting revenge? They aren’t saying much, not even releasin’ the bugger’s name, but—”

“I have to go,” Harry said, shocked it was words that came out of his mouth and not his lunch. He pushed past Seamus, racing for the nearest washroom, and parked himself at one of the sinks just in case. 

He waited there, heaving before the mirror and ignoring its soft murmurs of _You’re looking peaky, dear_ until he had his stomach under control and his breathing in some semblance of order—and then he wrote off Transfiguration and made straight for the Room of Requirement.

He hadn’t misremembered, had he? No—no, he hadn’t. It was hard to mix up _Christmas Eve_ and a random day in March, wasn’t it? He could even recall the breaking news interrupting the _Celestina’s Christmas Carolthon _as he and the Weasleys had sat around the Wireless digesting Christmas lunch—quickly presenting word of Malfoy Senior’s murder before zipping right back into a round of festive crooning. 

Was this his doing, then, after all? Not the murder itself, but the timing? There was no other explanation that he could think of—in some way, his attempt at reversing his well-meant meddling had only delayed what was evidently inevitable. And _that_ didn’t sound like something Draco was going to want to hear at all.

His heart was thudding in his chest as he made the requisite passes along the seventh-floor corridor, and he tried very hard to ignore Barnabas the Barmy warning him, “I’d try again another time, boy. He’s in a feisty mood today.”

There was nothing for it but to face Draco and his ‘feisty mood’, and with a deep, steeling breath, he reached for the handle that materialised on his third pass and gave a hard yank—

—and was nearly brained by a flying desk, only avoiding grievous harm by dropping to his knees and rolling out of the way.

The desk slammed into the wall and shattered into a shower of wood shards that pelted Harry briefly before fizzling away as the Room reabsorbed its now-destroyed creation. He scrambled back to his feet, wand out at the ready, because Draco didn’t seem to have noticed him enter the Room, too absorbed in his task of conjuring pieces of furniture and then promptly destroying them. He sent desks and tables and bureaus and the odd stool slamming into the walls with furious slashes of his wand.

The Room was dark, devoid of all the familiar trappings—the colourful wall hangings and plush furniture had been stripped away, leaving behind cold stone walls and low torchlight that reminded Harry uncomfortably of Azkaban. This was no oasis, no private getaway. This was every bit the prison Harry had accused Draco of using it for all those months ago.

“Get out.”

An inkwell went zipping past Harry’s head, smashing against the wall behind Harry—and he didn’t doubt Draco had missed on purpose, as he was standing there, in the centre of the Room now, drawn up tall and with a terrible expression on his face, just staring at Harry. He was lean and pale and looked like he’d missed his last _ten_ meals instead of just lunch, even from where he stood in the frame of the doorway, Harry could see his eyes were puffy and red-rimmed, with salty tracks lining his cheeks. Draco wasn’t holding back his tears this time.

“…Draco—”

“Get. _Out_.” Draco levelled his wand at Harry in threat—not his Ministry one, but his faithful hawthorn, which meant he could do some real damage if he wanted. And he certainly seemed to want. “I’ll not ask a third time.”

Harry held his ground, swallowing. “Draco, I just want—”

An armchair—Harry’s own—came flying at him this time, and with a burst of annoyance, Harry batted it away. “Would you stop chucking furniture at me and _talk_ to me?”

“Oh, you had but to ask!” Draco started marching for him, something Harry admittedly had not expected, and with his overlong legs, he was on Harry in a handful of strides—and then his wand was jabbing into Harry’s throat. “This—this is _your_ fucking fault.” Harry tried to scramble back, but he came up against the unforgiving stone of the Room’s walls, and Draco leaned in close, voice low and soft with deadly intent. “You—fucking—_meddled_. I told you to leave well enough alone, and now he’s _fucking _de—” His voice hitched, and he took a breath, repeating with conviction, “He’s _dead_.”

Harry wished he had practised what he was going to say, because he knew—he just knew—that no matter what he said, what excuses he made, it was going to come out all wrong. “I—Draco, I _swear_, I didn’t—”

He smiled, releasing a huffing, grunting chuckle. “But you did. You _did_.” Draco drew back, patting Harry’s cheek with a soft, sharp slap, and then he turned and chucked his wand with a bellow of rage. It clattered off the far wall, hitting the ground and rolling away. “Nothing’s going to change. He died, he died _just like you said he would_. You—” He turned on Harry, jabbing a finger at him. “You aren’t _special_. You can’t warp the fabric of time itself or—or bend fate to your whim.” He held his hands out, shaking his head. “You’re just a useless, sanctimonious arsehole who makes everyone else’s business his own with no regard to their _own fucking feelings_.” He began to pace out his nervous energy, and Harry thought that, if he touched Draco right now, he might explode, like a hair-trigger bomb. “If you’d fucked off when I told you to, if you hadn’t insisted that _you knew best_, then he’d—”

“He’d still be dead, Draco. You know he would be. Sooner than now, even.”

The words left Harry’s lips quite without his permission, but once out, he found he didn’t so much mind he’d said what he had. He’d meant it, after all. It was the unvarnished truth, and Draco could use a little bit of that right now, bouncing off the walls with undirected rage as he was. An _Aguamenti_ to the face, for all intents and purposes. 

Draco’s features screwed up, gone all pale and pointy and twisted, and he spat with as much venom as Harry thought he’d ever heard, “But _I wouldn’t have hoped_! It would’ve happened, and I would’ve been fucking devastated, but I _wouldn’t have hoped_!” His voice echoed off the rafters high above, raw and ragged, and Harry felt the tenor in his bones. “You can’t just—show up, shove your way in, and—and—” He took a haggard breath, shoulders slumping, and when he spoke again, his voice was calmer. Resigned. “You’re useless.” Harry opened his mouth to protest, but nothing came out, and Draco shoved the heels of his palms into his eyes, rubbing furiously. “You can’t fucking change anything. It’s all the same, it’s _always_ going to be the same, because of course it is. It’s me, it’s my—fucking _fate_.”

Harry felt that heavy, sickening pit starting to form in his stomach again, twisting everything into knots, because Draco’s tone—his _words_—were falling dangerous on Harry’s ears. He had to stop this train of thought, before it ran away and jumped the tracks. He kept his voice even, careful not to provoke. “You can’t think like that, Draco. This magic—it’s…it’s complicated, sure, but we can still—”

“You don’t get it.” Draco’s voice fell flat, drained. He lacked even the energy to scoff at Harry now. “It’s _always_ going to be the same. You’re an overzealous self-important knob with a saviour complex, nothing more—_certainly_ not a god. Just a sad, delusional fuck who thinks he can set the world right, when you know in your heart of hearts that this moment, right here, proves just how feeble such efforts are. Lie to yourself all you like, but—” He took a step back, shaking his head sharply and pressing his lips into a thin line. “I’m done. I can’t. I _can’t_. I can’t do this. I told you before, and I meant it: I am a coward.” He massaged the fabric of his shirt, just over his heart. “I can’t do this. I won’t.”

He was standing there, before Harry’s eyes, crumbling. He’d doffed his mask and shattered it against the walls of the Room in his fit, and now there was nothing left to disguise the fact he was just a scared little boy, terrified of the future Harry had warned him about. He wasn’t mourning Lucius—he was mourning _himself_. His own fate, or what he thought of as his fate, at least.

And this had been what Harry had feared: that the slightest slip-up, the tiniest stumble would send Malfoy to his knees, and he’d forget that he had the power to clamber back to his feet again. He’d stay there, because people told him that was where he was meant to be. Just like he’d put himself in this prison of a Room, just like he’d sat there, quiet and calm, on the eve of his Kiss, wishing Harry a happy life. Because he thought he deserved it.

Harry wouldn’t stand for it. Maybe that Draco had deserved his fate—but this one didn’t. Not yet. Not _ever_, if Harry had anything to do with it, and he still meant to have a hell of a lot to do with it. Much as Draco hated to be seen by Harry at his lowest, so too did Harry hate to watch: to see him rendered broken, beaten, _terrified_. He wasn’t a coward; he was a Slytherin—and sometimes retreat was the better part of valour. But not right now.

Harry had left him to rot in his cage the one time—and he’d regretted it ever since. He wasn’t going to have it happen again.

“You have to, though. You have to do it.”

Draco gave a start—and then his pale features flushed with a sudden burst of bright anger. “Oh, well then, if I _have_ to! If Harry-fucking-Potter tells me I must!” 

“I do.”

Draco rounded on him again, but he was wandless this time and so only had his height to intimidate with. And Harry wasn’t of a mind to bend just now. “_Fuck off_,” he hissed, uncomfortably close, and Harry was reminded of that first heady encounter in the empty Potions lab. He’d thought Draco was going to thrash him then—he thought it might happen again now. 

“Think I’ve already expressed to you my intentions with regards to fucking off.”

“I told you I’m _not your project_.”

“And I’m not treating you as such. I’m telling you to stop feeling so damned sorry for yourself and take charge of the situation. I’m getting _really_ tired of having to do all the heavy lifting myself here.”

Predictably, Draco did grab him by the collar, but he lacked the build to do much with it, and while Harry no longer had the bit of bulk he’d put on through his Auror training modules, he still remembered how to centre himself so an unskilled assailant couldn’t too easily bring him to his knees. 

“I do _not_ feel sorry for myself—”

“‘Oh it’s all fucked up now! It was never going to work! My fate! My future!’” Harry rolled his eyes. “God but you can turn on the dramatics when you want.” Draco shoved him back with an enraged snarl, pulling back his arm and making a fist. It was all wrong, though, and Harry knew if it connected, he’d probably wind up breaking his wrist. Harry caught his hand before he could hurt himself. “I never taught you hand-to-hand combat. I wouldn’t try that if I were you—guarantee you’ll hurt yourself more than you’ll hurt me.”

This hadn’t been the right thing to say, though, for Draco lashed out with his foot, catching Harry by the knee, and he released Draco with a grunting cry.

Draco stumbled back a step, breathing hard and glaring at Harry with hot fury. “You think this is _dramatics_? Think I just like to _fucking humiliate _myself in front of—”

“In front of me? No. No, I don’t think you like that at all. You’ve told me as such on several occasions—and I believe it. What I _don’t_ believe is that we can’t fix this. That we can’t _stop this_. What I don’t believe—”

“No one gives a fuck _what you believe_! Because reality is reality is reality, whether the Chosen One wants to accept it or not!” Draco’s voice went tight with emotion, and his eyes had a manic gleam to them. “I can’t do the impossible. However you may ask it, however you may _order_ it, I’m always going to fuck up—it’s _what I do_. I guarantee you no matter how many times you come back and try, with all the Time Turners in the world at your command, this will end the same for me _every_ single iteration. And there’s not a _damn_ thing you can do about it.”

His words echoed off the high stone walls with a clanging finality, and Harry had heard more than enough.

Nothing he could do about it?

_Bullshit_.

Something lodged hot and bitter in his chest—irritation, aggravation, and just enough defiance to set him off. Before he could catch himself, he’d snapped a hand out and hooked a finger into the collar of Draco’s shirt, jerking him close. His other hand slid up and around Draco’s neck, his fingers buried in the feathery bits of hair at the nape, and Harry surged forward to cover those nattering lips with his own.

Draco seized in his embrace, but Harry held fast—hot and hard and insistently demanding, because that was all this self-absorbed prick responded to when he was too much in his own head. Fiendfyre with Fiendfyre. And like a rebounding echo, giving back as good as he got, Draco brought his hands up between them and braced against Harry’s chest to—

To curl his fingers in the heavy fabric of Harry’s school robes, white-knuckled and holding _fast_. He clung for dear life, drawing Harry into him and pressing back with just as much merciless insistence. A bold, bruising display, as if to announce: _We’re a match, you and I_. Certainly not the coward he might have claimed—thought still just as dramatic.

Harry drew back with a soft, wet _pop_, lips puffy and breath coming in short, staccato pants. His glasses were fogging, and he could feel the bridge pads had left little indentations across his nose. Draco’s eyes were hooded and unfocused, and Harry’s mouth ticked up at one side. “…Bet that’s new.”

Like he’d had a spotlight fixed on him, Draco went stiff and taut in Harry’s grip, the haze in his eyes evaporating in an instant—and then, oh _then_ he was angry again, jerking Harry around and shoving, hard. He walked Harry back and back and back until his knees came up against something soft but unforgiving—and down Harry toppled, onto plushly upholstered cushions (his armchair! Freshly conjured and conveniently placed). 

Before Harry could catch his breath and decide if this change of position worried or excited him, Draco was scrambling over and atop him, straddling Harry’s hips and grabbing his ears as if to box them. He didn’t box them though—only used them to hold Harry in place as he mashed their lips together again in a rather inelegant move he must have thought punishing. And it did feel a bit punishing, but Harry supposed he deserved it. He’d been provocative, incendiary, and it was a wonder Draco was touching him at all instead of just wandlessly Banishing him back to Gryffindor Tower.

Fuck, he was meant to be in Transfiguration right now. They’d been practising Glamours since term started, and it was Eyebrows Week. But Harry found, shockingly, that he had no interest whatsoever in feigning ineptitude with a spell he’d been casting for five-plus years now when he could, instead, have Draco in his lap, hot and heavy and necking with him like he was getting the Kiss tonight and not seven (shit, _six_ almost) years hence. 

It was Harry’s turn now to splay a hand between them, nudging with just enough pressure Draco agreed to gentle his technique or risk being shoved off altogether. His hands slid up, rucking up Draco’s robes until his fingers found his belt loops, and Draco must have found this suitable, for he made a breathy sound that evaporated in Harry’s mouth, pressing his forehead against Harry’s. Liking that, and wanting it to happen again, Harry gave the loops a gentle tug, and Draco slid down off his knees, his arse nestled primly atop Harry’s crotch.

And _shit_. Draco was hard. Which was fantastic, because Harry was hard as well, but also very, _very_ dangerous, because there was snogging, and that was one thing, but things tended to get messy—figuratively and literally—when the sensitive bits came into play. Not knowing quite what to do, only that he might find his bollocks wandlessly Vanished if he made a false move, Harry released Draco’s belt loops, sliding one hand up to cup the back of Draco’s head and working the other under Draco’s button-up.

Draco’s stomach muscles jumped when Harry brushed them, and he gave a ragged gasp, pointy nose digging into Harry’s cheek as he pressed against Harry, impossibly close and trembling from the want of it all. Harry kissed, gently, the corner of his mouth, holding and waiting until Draco showed him what he should do. He massaged the nape of Draco’s neck with the one hand, the fine feathery hairs sticking together as a sheen of sweat began to settle between them, and with the other, traced nonsensical runes into Draco’s skin. 

It wasn’t enough—not for Harry, and definitely not for Draco, who began to squirm against him. Harry slid his hand around to Draco’s back, trailing a finger down his spine to rest at the swell of his arse, and Draco, quite suddenly, bucked into him, as if he’d just tripped a switch. 

“_Fu—_” Harry hissed, open-mouthed, and pressed his lips to Draco’s, who met him hungrily in the middle with force enough he worried his glasses might snap. He bucked again, and Harry wanted to reach down and grab him, to make him either _stop_ or _get on with it_, because he hadn’t done this in a distressingly long time—and really, well, he hadn’t done _this_ ever. _Ever_ ever. Thank god for Gryffindor bravery—and their penchant for rash, ill-considered proaction. 

Draco’s hips were flexing fitfully, like he couldn’t get the angle right and had simply resorted to rutting in animalistic abandon, waiting for completion that hung just out of reach. Maybe he hadn’t done this either—wild Slytherin orgies at the weekend seemed out, in which case.

“Fuck you—fucking _fuck_…” Draco babbled, and though he did not sound so very angry anymore, he was still cursing like a sailor, a long strong of filthy nothings rolling off his silver tongue and into Harry’s mouth and down his throat. It was enough to get drunk on, and Harry decided to let it go to his head. He slipped his hand down, from the small of Draco’s back, sliding just under the hem of his trousers and and then pants, cupping the bony globe of one arsecheek, and Draco had an absolute fit, hips snapping forward as he fucked Harry—clothed and all—right through the cushions. Harry’s cock leapt in his pants, stiff and straining, and he worried for half a moment the buttons on his fly might actually ping off and put an eye out. 

All sense abandoned, Draco gave himself over wholly to arousal, drawing back and adjusting his seat against Harry. He closed his eyes, head hung low, and swivelled his hips, rubbing himself off with a mounting, frenetic rhythm that Harry could not tear his eyes away from. He didn’t dare move, not a muscle, because he needed to see this play out, needed to see Draco fall apart, shatter atop him. _Why does it always have to be you?_ he’d asked, and Harry hadn’t had an answer then, but now, he thought maybe it was because he was the only one who could rightfully appreciate the sight of Draco brought so low, made vulnerable. Appreciate it, cherish it. Protect it.

He brought his hands to Draco’s hips, steadying Draco against him, and kept his body rigid and hard as Draco continued to rock and thrust. His mouth fell open, each panting breath coming audibly now, and Harry could feel Draco tightening against him, his muscles going stiff as everything drew in, coiled for release. _We’re a match, you and I_—suited, even as they so often butted heads.

“Potter… _Potter_…” Draco was breathing, lids fluttering and throat working. “_Potter…_”

Harry answered the call, leaving off playing with the fine little hairs at Draco’s neck and slipping his hand between their bellies to suss out the hard, hot ball of want giving Draco fits. Draco keened when Harry’s fingers traced the lean line of his cock through the fabric, and he threw his head back, steadying himself with one arm thrown over the back of the chair as he rocked into Harry’s hand. Harry pinched the shaft gently on each shuddering pump, his own cock fattening in sympathy, and though he could not reach them from the angle, he could feel the pair of heavy bollocks drawn up tight just at the base, rubbing over Harry’s own. It was enough to drive a man mad, if the idea of sitting here, sprawled over an armchair while Draco Malfoy rutted atop him wasn’t evidence enough he’d already gone round the twist.

How had he ever thought he could get this man out of his head? Just Obliviate himself and move on? Delusional, Draco had accused him of being, and though not for the reasons offered, Harry had to agree.

He massaged Draco’s cock feverishly through his trousers, his own arousal rapidly growing too insistent to ignore. Draco gripped the back of the armchair white-knuckled, slapping his thigh and biting his lip hard enough they were sure to be painfully bruised if he didn’t draw blood outright. 

“C’mon, you stubborn git,” Harry breathed, voice low and gravelly as he worked Draco. He’d never be accused of being a Puritan prude again, that was for damn sure. “_Come_.”

It was as if Draco had simply been awaiting an invitation to do so—for he abruptly seized, going quiet and still before grunting through his climax. He jerked and juddered in Harry’s arms, and it was, without question, the hottest thing Harry had ever seen in his life. He watched, entranced by the maelstrom of naked pleasure washing over Draco’s features as orgasm wracked his body—and only once the shudders and twitches had gone lazy and lethargic did Harry swallow, adjust his seat, and then mash his hand over his own crotch. He rubbed over the material fitfully, still running deliriously hot while Draco lulled against the back of the armchair, catching his breath. He might have liked to sit there, lazily pulling himself off while he watched Draco come down from his high, but his body was not having it. 

Somehow both too quickly and not quickly enough, he was shivering through his own climax, a wet spot blooming uncomfortably over his crotch. He tried to remember the last time he’d been so desperate to get off he hadn’t even bothered to pull his pants down and came up empty. Well, they could count that as another new experience as well.

Harry slumped back against the armchair, his head resting on the arm as he stared up at the ceiling and waited for the starburst flashes in his vision to dissipate. A faint, musty smell permeated the Room now, and Harry wrinkled his nose. He shifted, taking care not to jostle Draco from his perch, and groped beneath him until he found his wand. With a whisper, he spelled his hands and trousers clean, doing Draco as well when it seemed he was still too spunk-drunk to find his wand and make himself presentable again on his own.

The armchair smoothly transformed into a cosy little loveseat at Harry’s unspoken request, and Draco at length allowed himself to be chivvied off, until they were both sat there, legs akimbo and chests heaving with exertion while they stared blankly straight ahead into nothing. 

“Did you just…” Draco started, but his voice cracked, and he had to swallow and take a breath. “Did you just…wank me off…to keep me from dying?” With what was clearly a concerted effort, he turned his head to the side, just enough he could stare at Harry, scowling leerily.

Harry wasn’t rightly sure how to answer that, so lacking any better excuse, he simply said, “…Was mostly doing it to prove my point.”

Draco was still scowling, but he scowled a lot, as a rule, so this didn’t necessarily mean anything. He turned back to face straight ahead, shoulders slumped. “…My father’s dead.”

Harry nodded, because what else was there to say to that? “…Yeah.” And then, because he was still a bit addled from his orgasm, he added. “Guess he won’t be hearing about this, then.”

Draco released a stuttered breath—could have been an unwilling chuckle, could have been a sob, it was difficult to tell. He rubbed a hand over his face, then back through his hair. When he spoke this time, his voice sounded steadier—carefully steeled, Harry thought, for disappointment. “…Do you think it worked?”

“What?”

“Don’t _what_ me,” Draco snapped, and clearly he was back in his right mind by now, those thick walls slamming back up before Harry made another grab for his cock and began dismantling them once more. “Do you think it—” He pinched his lips. “Made a _difference_.”

Harry eyed him in profile, and everything about him, once again, was going tight and taut. Harry had given his release valve a good pull, but now the pressure was building again, threatening another explosion if not appropriately diverted.

Harry sighed, shifting forward and grabbing Draco’s eye, impressing the gravity of his words through their locked gazes. “_Everything_ makes a difference, Draco. It does, I promise you. You’re in charge of your own fate—but it only works if you actually _take _charge. Everything makes a difference.” Draco was still giving him a long, scowling look, ever sceptical, but at least there was no more furniture being flung about. “…But if it’d make you feel better, we could try it a few more times? Just in case?”

“Oh _piss off_,” was not the response he’d been hoping for, nor had he been ready for the pillow cuffing him upside the head. But Draco was doing something now he hadn’t been doing when Harry had walked in only moments ago: trying—and doing a poor job of it—to bite back a reluctant, apple-cheeked smile.

So if for no one else, it had at least made a hell of a difference for Harry.


	12. Chapter 12

Before he would release Harry back to Transfiguration, Draco wanted abject assurance that “this business”, as he put it, had never happened in Harry’s original timeline. Harry therefore had to awkwardly but vehemently reassure him that no, he definitely had not—_would_ never have, even if opportunity had presented itself.

“_Never_?” Draco said, with the gall to sound _offended_. “You certainly seemed hard up for it from where _I_ was seated!”

Harry did not remind him that, realistically, most any bloke would’ve been hard up for it with another warm body rutting so sweetly and fervently atop his cock. “Well—you were a horrid little shit!” he said instead, which in retrospect was not much better. “And then you were a literal Death Eater! And then you fled the country, and _then_ you got caught up with the Neo-Death Eaters, and then you were in Azkaban and then you were _dead_. When exactly was I supposed to entertain thoughts that maybe I might fancy you a little?” He heaved a dramatic huff, ruffling his hair with one hand. He really needed a shower, but there was no time if he wanted to be present for any of the Transfiguration lesson at all. McGonagall was a stickler for attendance and demanded thorough explanations for any tardiness and absences—though he could, he supposed, tell her in all honesty he’d gone to see how Draco was handling the news of his father’s passing.

Draco boggled. “You _fancy_ me?”

“Hypothetically speaking!” The conversation was rapidly getting away from him. 

“Well now you make it sound like you don’t like me very much at all,” Draco sniffed. “And after your insistence on calling me your _friend_, too. Inconstance is very unbecoming, you know.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Obviously I like you.”

“Do you, now.” Unbelieving, if Harry had ever heard such a tone.

“Think I walk around pulling off anyone who trods across my path?”

“Thought you did it to make a point?”

Harry shrugged. “It can be a bit of both.” Truthfully, he was quite sure he was going to be stuck unpacking the breadth and depth of his feelings for Draco until next Christmas—but ‘fancy’ sounded so very sophomoric. Like they were in school. And, well, all right, they _were_ in school. But still. He sighed. “Anyway, the point is _no_, this didn’t happen before, and I can’t see any way it ever _could_ have happened.” Draco winced, just a subtle twinge, at Harry’s proclamation, and that was something else he was going to have to unpack later. “So between the two of us, we’ve made the impossible possible. Think of it that way.”

He needed, really _needed_, Draco to do away with the idea he wasn’t in control of his fate—that he couldn’t change things if he didn’t like how he knew they might otherwise turn out. This entire endeavour only worked if they put their heads together and _made_ it work. They had to both want it—to both _believe_ in it—else there was no point. 

“Father still died…” Draco said, and Harry moved to stand in front of him, taking him by the shoulders and giving him a little shake.

“Just because _some_ things match up doesn’t mean they all will. We have breakfast every morning, just like we did in Eighth Year my first time around. It doesn’t mean anything—it’s just something we’ve chosen not to change. _Choices_ matter. _Will_ matters. _Wanting_ matters.” He let his hands fall away. “And I reckon you’re not one to sit idly by and let what you want slip through your fingers.”

Draco brushed imagined lint from his shoulders, readjusting the fall of his robes with a lifted brow. “Well now you’re _definitely_ propositioning me.”

“You told me to find something you might say ‘yes’ to. So I did.” He then felt compelled to add: “But just so we’re clear, I _wasn’t_ propositioning you before.”

Draco gave a half-shrug. “Pity. As I told you: I might have been receptive.”

Sensing a weak point, Harry needled, “Now who fancies who?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say _fancy_. But…” Draco favoured him with an appraising look. “You clearly have your uses.” Harry swallowed, the tone of the conversation taking a tangible turn that parts of Harry were rapidly getting on board with—but Draco waved him away with a dismissive gesture and flopped down in a sprawling pose across the length of his freshly conjured acid-green divan. Harry didn’t doubt that, shortly, all of the recently destroyed furniture would find its way back into the Room. “On your way, now. You’re missing Transfiguration.”

Fuck it all, he was. And his Transfiguration marks had taken a hit of late as DA meetings had picked up in the new term, the looming Defence O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s demanding more from the students than their official curriculum had prepared them for. McGonagall _really_ needed to appoint a new full-time professor, and stat. 

Harry wiped a hand over his face with a groan. “…I’ll see you after, then?”

“I’ve Ancient Runes in the afternoon, Potter. You know that.”

“Well, yeah, obviously I meant _after_ that.”

Draco was leering at him now, looking unaccountably amused as he hung over the arm of the divan. “Why? Got something planned, have you?”

“Gryffindors don’t really _do_ plans, as I’m sure you’ve discovered.” Harry stuffed his hands in his pockets, traipsing backwards for the door. “We’re more of the pull-something-out-of-our-arses sorts.”

“Drats,” Draco said, reaching for a leatherbound text and conjuring a sheaf of parchment and handsome harpy-feather quill for note-taking. “I prefer the stick-something-in-the-arse sorts.”

Harry went for the door straightaway, before he locked himself in the Room and never left.

Their fitful session on the armchair was not, Harry would discover, the mark of any great change in their relationship. They did not hold hands, they did not take meals together, and Draco still refused to visit the Gryffindor Common Room. He would not call Harry by his given name, and he did not flirt with Harry very much more now than he had before Lucius’s death.

They did, however, have _rather_ a lot of sex, which was about the greatest change in their relationship Harry thought he could handle at the moment, so all the other stuff could wait until he’d gotten used to this much, he figured. Harry made the wretched mistake, though, of confessing to Draco (under sexual duress, mind) that he’d never done _half_ the things they’d done together with another living soul.

“_Never_?” Draco breathed, lifting up off Harry’s cock with wide eyes and puffy lips. “You’ve _never_ been sucked off? Not even by Girl Weasley?”

Harry shook his head frantically, pounding the corded upholstery of Draco’s lovely green divan. “Never. Never never. Now get back to it? C’mon, you’ve had me edging for ten minutes now…”

Draco _hmm_ed softly, keeping his grip firm about the base of Harry’s cock. “She seemed fond enough of you, for reasons I could never fathom. Too many overprotective brothers hovering about to find any privacy, then?”

Fuck it, he wasn’t going to leave off until Harry gave him a story that satisfied, was he? “We got together Sixth Year. I was—preoccupied, you’ll recall.”

“Mm, stalking me.”

Harry was too horny to argue the point. “So we never really got beyond snogging. Then I went off with Hermione and Ron for—” He only just kept himself from giving away more than he’d meant to. “For war preparations. And then after the Battle of Hogwarts…” He grimaced, and he could feel his cock starting to wilt. He really didn’t want to be having this conversation just now—they’d been on their way to a spectacular pair of orgasms just a moment ago, and now unpleasant memories were robbing him of all ardour. “Well, I already told you about that.”

Draco gave his cock a few gentle, teasing pumps to keep him interested. “So not for lack of interest, then?”

“Do I look uninterested to you?” Harry huffed.

“I recall some mention of being ‘too busy’, as if there’s such a thing.”

“I just—” He knew he wasn’t explaining himself well. It helped nothing most of the blood was pooling in his south head at the moment, leaving little for his north to deal with. “I know that…that I could’ve easily gone to a seedy club and pulled someone—”

“Don’t be daft. You’re Harry-fucking-Potter. You could have walked to the corner and dropped trou and found a line of willing mouths that stretched around the block.”

“—but that’s…” He licked his lips, firming his jaw defensively. “It’s not for me. That—that sort of thing.”

And Draco rolled his eyes, shifting on his knees where he knelt between Harry’s splayed legs. Even with a Cushioning Charm, Harry didn’t imagine it was all that comfortable. “‘That sort of thing’. Heavens forfend our Patron Saint Potter sully himself with an alleyway tug—”

“It’s not that,” Harry protested weakly. “I just—I’m just… I like…” Draco lifted a brow, waiting with frustratingly unending patience. “I like—knowing them.”

“Them?”

“My—partner. Whoever I’m with. I want to…” Harry swallowed. “I want to know them. I want to want them, for them. Not because they’re a warm hand or mouth or whatever. I want—”

“To be a match…” Draco breathed, staring up at him, searching.

“…Yeah.”

Draco softly cleared his throat. “Foolish romantic. With notions like that, it’s no wonder you never got laid.”

“And it’s looking like I’m never going to get blown, either.” He nudged Draco’s shoulder with his knee. “Should I pull myself off?”

Draco let his head drop forward, leaning in to rub the velvet shaft of Harry’s cock gently against his cheek and near worshipful as he whispered with an arousal-ragged voice, “Don’t you dare.”

Harry imagined this was what they’d had in mind when they’d coined the word _fellatio_. There was blowing, and sucking—which somehow in this context meant the same thing, strangely—and giving head and all those colourful terms boys sniggered about in the dark corners of the Quidditch locker rooms or around the Common Room fire late on a Friday evening after a few thimbles of Firewhisky. Base, crude—but not inaccurate.

This, though—_this_ was…well, it was an art form. And Harry was an exceedingly receptive audience, so he sat back and watched Draco work his magic.

In no time at all, Draco had, between his nimble fingers and sinful tongue, brought Harry back to a handsome erection, though he was, if possible, working Harry even _more_ slowly than before. Harry thought to complain—Draco certainly never held back in letting Harry know when _he _wasn’t satisfied with his attentions—but Draco seemed engrossed in his task, as if there were no place he’d rather be in that moment than sat between Harry’s legs, his lips wrapped around Harry’s cock.

Draco laved a long stripe from the little divot where Harry’s bollocks met the base of his shaft and up, to the crown, where he pressed a soft kiss to the red, leaking tip. He blew gently over it, grinning to himself when Harry’s hips gave a little answering jerk, then slowly, achingly, took Harry fully into his mouth. Harry wanted to curse, loud and long and full, when he felt the teasing graze of Draco’s teeth just at the lip of the crown, silent reminder that he was exceedingly vulnerable right now, and Draco could cut him deep in more ways than one if he wanted.

But he didn’t seem to want. No, instead, he seemed to only care about _Harry_, Harry’s pleasure, and making this experience quite everything Harry might have imagined it to be. Sure, he hadn’t ever imagined Draco Malfoy would be involved, but he was not disappointed in the least, now it was happening. 

With one hand, Draco teased the curve of Harry’s bollocks, beginning to draw up tight against his cock, and with the other, he traced the muscle of Harry’s inner thigh, slender fingers carding through the thatch of black hair carpeting his groin. Harry sighed, head thrown back, and lost himself to his senses—the sounds of appreciative little grunts and enthusiastic suckling, the musky scent of sweat and slick mingling, the feel of Draco’s rough tongue and smooth lips gliding over his cock, and fingers brushing against—

Harry gave a jolt, reflexively tugging his legs in and bracketing Draco’s shoulders.

Draco lifted off. “What?” he asked, breathy and annoying.

“I—you—” Harry swallowed, thoughts whirling. “You—touched me.”

“Of course I touched you, good gad. What did you think I was doing?”

“No, I mean you—” He forced his legs back open, trying to relax. “I wasn’t expecting you to—you know. There.”

Draco’s gaze darted down and then back up, lips pursed primly but without a hint of guilt. He gently scritched the great vein under Harry’s cock, like it was a lap-Kneazle. “…Did you not like it?”

“I didn’t say—it was just…”

“Unexpected,” Draco finished. “Well now you know to expect it—so may I?” When Harry didn’t respond as quickly or enthusiastically as Draco had evidently hoped, he pressed, “…I’d like to. You’ll like me to as well, I’m sure.”

“I…” Harry started, not entirely sure how he wanted to finish it.

“There are things,” Draco said, head cocked to lean against the inside of Harry’s thigh as he lazily massaged the cock in his hand, “that I only like to do—or have done—if I know my partner, too.” He nuzzled the soft skin just at the crease where Harry’s leg blended into his groin. “When I want them.”

Harry shivered, despite himself, and frowned. “Thought you said it was a foolish romantic notion.”

“It is.” Draco shrugged. “Mayhaps we’re a match after all, then.” He shifted back, pressing a butterfly kiss to the head of Harry’s cock and inhaling. A little dribble of slick bubbled up in response, and Harry’s stomach muscles jumped. Draco lifted his brows in question—and Harry nodded, heart thudding in his chest.

He didn’t think he could watch, though. There was fantasising about this sort of thing—and then there was the actual _doing_ of it, and Gryffindor though he might be, Harry was not yet quite so brave as to confront what exactly it was that was happening. It fascinated him, of that there could be no doubt, and he absolutely wanted to try it—it was only, well, it was _new_. Novel. Letting someone touch him like he’d never even touched _himself_ before, and ever so much more intimate than a hand or even lips on your bits. 

“Eyes, Potter,” Draco said, voice thick and gruff and commanding, and Harry’s head snapped up. He’d set aside his glasses, so everything had a lovely blur that helped him feel apart from the activities, but Draco didn’t seem inclined to let Harry wholly dissociate. “Do be present when someone’s being so kind as to get you off.”

“I—I wasn’t—”

“I know what you weren’t. But all the same.” He swallowed, then added, low and ashamed. “Please.”

Harry’s heart, already racing, did a somersault, clenching in his chest, and Harry nodded. “Of course.”

This seemed to satisfy, and Harry watched, fixated, as Draco returned to his task with renewed vigour. Draco had the Room Conjure him a stoppered jar of a clear, viscous liquid whose purpose Harry could fairly well guess, and he fought the instinct to look away, cheeks heating. Draco would, there was no doubt, take all the piss out of him later for what must have seemed prudish, Puritan sentiments, but it wasn’t _that_. It was only—

Well, it was only _Draco_. Someone usually so stiff and staid, who held himself with such poise, willingly dissembling and debasing himself like this. Harry half-thought he’d rather their positions be reversed, if only because that was something Harry thought he could better wrap his head around. Draco ate his pasties with a fork, for fuck’s sake. The idea of him touching Harry like that…

“You’ll want to relax,” Draco said, lips curved in faint amusement. “Else you won’t enjoy it half as much.”

“I’ll—try.” Harry nodded again, mostly for himself. 

“Oi.” Draco leaned back, dropping Harry’s cock altogether. It bobbed piteously between his legs, leaking on the upholstery of Draco’s hideous green divan. “Don’t bullshit me, Potter.” Harry frowned, and Draco continued with pursed lips, “If you don’t want to do this—”

“I do!” Harry protested, perhaps too hotly. “I do, I mean—I don’t…I don’t _not_ want to.”

“Just the sort of full-throated enthusiasm for bedroom play that really gets me hard.”

Harry despaired. If he wasn’t straight about this—if he didn’t explain himself properly—well then, it was never going to happen at all, was it? Draco was, despite himself, too much of a decent sort to touch Harry if he thought him at all reluctant, even if Harry himself felt a bit of a push might be necessary, on some fronts. He wiped a hand over his face, gesturing vaguely to his crotch. “It’s only—I mean, there are _spells_ for this sort of thing, aren’t there? I don’t see why you’d want to…”

And then, Draco was _laughing_ at him. Only a sly, derisive little chuckle, but genuine as anything, and Harry’s heart did more acrobatics. “…I realise the irony of someone like _me_ saying this sort of thing, but: there are times it’s nicer to _not_ use magic, you know.”

“Of course I know that.”

“Do you? Because yes, there’s spells to get you slick, there’s spells to diddle yourself with, there’s spells to turn your wand into a Hippogriff dick, if you’re so inclined.” Harry boggled, and he held up a finger to ask Draco to go back to the Hippogriff dick bit, because _that_ needed some explaining, but Draco barrelled on, earnest. “…But there’s also a spell to Summon the Snitch. So why not use it?”

Harry swallowed thickly, cheeks still warm. He wanted to look away, but Draco did not seem of a mind to let him. “…Not half as fun. Would defeat the purpose.”

“Mm. And there’s…something to be said for exerting yourself. Taking what you want, with your own hands.” He punctuated his words by reaching out for Harry’s cock again, greeting it with a flirtatious caress that promised more very soon.

Harry’s blood thrilled at the thought, and he felt his own mischievous nature rally. “Bold words for someone I beat to the Snitch nine games out of ten.”

Draco curled his fingers around his cock, giving a warning tug that toed the line between pleasure and pain. “Bold words for someone whose cock I’m about to swallow.” He gave Harry an appraising look. “I _am_ going to get to finish this time, aren’t I?”

“Awfully keen, are you?”

Draco refreshed the Cushioning Charm under his knees, settling back into position. “You aren’t the only one who’s been edging for the past ten minutes.”

He wasted no more time, and Harry did his very best to sit back and let Draco do what he wanted to do. He was delightfully distracted from any remnant misgivings when Draco swallowed him down, nearly to the dark-and-curlies, as if to boast _Now _this_ is a gag reflex to be proud of_, before drawing off and working with rather more diligence at the tip. With his free hand, he attended Harry’s bollocks, dipping his fingertips in the jar of lubricating paste the Room had provided and letting the bulbous little nubs slide through his pinched fingers in a way that made Harry’s toes curl. 

He did not flinch, this time, when Draco nudged aside Harry’s bollocks and traced a slick finger over the sensitive strip of skin just behind, reaching into the dark little divot. Harry watched, because Draco had asked him to, and heard the whispered wandless cleaning charm before he felt it, a cool brush of magic that left him feeling thoroughly…_evacuated_…and minty fresh. It was not, suffice it to say, how Harry had expected his Christmas gift to be used, and he wondered if Draco had been practising that particular spell for any special purpose.

Having never received fellatio before, nor given it, Harry could not comment on Draco’s technique beyond an incoherent stream of blathering that he hoped Draco took for the high praise it was meant to be. It was difficult to focus on much else, even the discomfiting sensation of a finger poking about around his arsehole, when Draco’s lips and tongue and even a cheeky bit of teeth were doing the things they were to Harry’s cock. It was all slick and hot and wet and tight, and slow enough Harry didn’t feel in danger of embarrassing himself by popping too early but not enough he was achieving any manner of satisfaction. He wanted more, and faster, and rougher until he whited out—even as he wanted it to keep going and going and going and never ever end.

His lids drooped, and he could feel the heat rising from his cheeks, but never did he let his eyes drift from the sight of Draco’s white-blond head bobbing in his lap. Couldn’t have, even if he’d wanted to, honestly. He felt a great swell of pity for the Harry Potter who’d been here before, who might have gone his whole life not only never experiencing this but never so much as _wanting_ to. Harry hadn’t wanted it either, before, and now that he saw in living colour what he’d been missing, there was a funny pit forming in his stomach. Like a bullet dodged when he hadn’t even heard the gun fire. 

All thoughts of bullets and what-might-not-have-beens, though, were abruptly chased away when Draco rubbed the pad of one finger over the furled opening, pressing just enough he got Harry’s attention. Draco glanced up, with another testing pass, to check Harry was actually going to let him. “…Scared, Potter?”

“You wish,” came the reflexive reply, and he settled back into the cushions, splaying his legs wider. “Show me what all the fuss is about.”

Draco took hold of Harry’s shaft in one hand, steadying it as he bobbed up and down, and with the other continued his furtive explorations. Harry tried very hard not to think about _where_ Draco was rooting about and instead focused on how it felt. 

Except, well, it mostly felt just weird. Not bad, but certainly not good. Like he’d been in the middle of taking a shit, but it was drawing back inside. He made a face, wondering if he ought to move his hips a bit. He’d heard that some angles felt better than others, and that there was supposed to be one position you could adopt where it felt fucking fantastic. He was keen to find _that_ one, and wondered if Draco knew what he was doing, fiddling about down there.

Draco struck up a rhythm with his head-bobbing, stroking in with his finger, a bit deeper on each pass, as he bore down on Harry’s cock, then up—and out—again. Harry wondered what it might feel like, if it weren’t Draco’s mouth he had wrapped around his cock but something tighter, hotter, and altogether more intimate. Would they wind up doing that? It was another one of those things that both titillated and terrified—the idea of being _that_ close with someone, after spending his whole life _apart_, sent a thrill through Harry. It’d be an entirely different closeness from what he shared with Ron and Hermione: something new and fascinating but ever so intimidating all the same. 

_Scared, Potter?_

Oh absolutely. But a healthy amount of fear was a good thing, he’d always maintained, and sheer terror had never stopped him from rushing in headlong before, now had it?

Draco had worked his finger in to the second knuckle by now, gently stroking Harry from the inside with an easy rhythm he reflecting with his lips and throat, drawing out just to the tip before sliding back in again. It tickled a bit, to be honest—the fingering, not the fellating—and Harry had to fight not to fidget or risk Draco getting the wrong idea—

“_Holy_ shit,” Harry gasped, hips bucking and nearly shoving the whole of his cock down Draco’s throat. It was only a firm, steady grip about the base of his cock, helping Draco follow the movement in a smooth motion before pulling off entirely, that spared him from a nasty sore throat that Madame Pomfrey would surely have seen right through. 

“And that, Auror Potter, is what they created the self-diddling spells for.”

Harry’s thighs were trembling as he gingerly sank back down, breath coming in short, sharp pants. “How’d they ever manage to stop testing them long enough to write them down?”

Draco’s smile was entirely too self-satisfied, and he gently guided Harry back into position, coating his fingers in more of the lubricating paste and returning to his task with a renewed enthusiasm that Harry worried he wouldn’t be able to keep up with. He kept on with the rhythmic fingering and fellating, but now he’d shown Harry what he was building up to, he allowed himself to be a bit more rough with his ministrations, his technique a tad sloppier.

Harry wasn’t complaining, though—he wasn’t doing much of _anything_ really, because everything was coming at him hard and fast now. Lips and tongue and fingers and heat and slick and pleasure that struck like a bolt of lightning before disappearing just as abruptly, leaving behind tingling chills like rolling thunder. Harry’s muscles ached from the tension with which he held himself, but it was reflex—he couldn’t relax, everything was tightening and drawing in and not yet _there_ but close, so close, and Harry just wanted to let go, wanted Draco to _let_ him go.

“Draco…Draco, c’mon…” He reached out, threading his fingers through Draco’s hair and trying not to yank it out by the root. “I need to…seriously…”

Draco drew off, leering up at Harry with bright, sharp eyes. His cheeks were cherry red and his lips plump and shining with a sheen of saliva. He licked them, then swallowed thickly. “Need to what?” He crooked his finger, and Harry shuddered with a gasp. “Use your words; let’s not be barbaric, now.”

“Need to—fucking come, obviously.”

“Is it obvious?” He continued to massage the delicate little nub he’d found in his probing about, and Harry’s thoughts went white. “Tell me again.”

“Let me…” Harry pleaded, his own voice falling foreign on his ears. He’d never begged in his life, yet here he was, quite literally wrapped around Draco’s finger. “Let me, _please_.”

“I’m the only one, aren’t I? To ever see you like this.”

“Yes…” Harry huffed, half-mad with arousal. “Told—you…”

“And you’re the only one to have ever seen me at my worst.” He gave Harry’s cock a rough stroke. “So we’re even now.”

Harry squirmed. “Not—a competition.”

“Everything’s a competition of some sort, Potter. Do be serious.”

“Not a competition, not ‘even’,” he repeated, insistent, and he settled one hand over Draco’s around his shaft, showing him how he wanted to be stroked, since they seemed to be having a difference of opinion on _several_ matters at the moment. “But a match.”

Draco released a defeated whine and squeezed, hard enough Harry winced, before immediately releasing him with a hissed oath by way of apology. He reached up, snagging Harry by the tie and drawing him close enough to kiss. His breath smelled less than fragrant, but Harry supposed that was to be expected and kissed him anyway, since he seemed to be a bit desperate for it. They kissed, deep and rough and graceless, and the calloused pad of Draco’s finger rubbed furiously over that angry little spot inside of Harry that made him see stars. He bucked, huffing and keening into Draco’s mouth as their kisses devolved into mashed lips and tongue and teeth, neither entirely in their right mind. 

Harry’s arm came up around Draco’s shoulder, clutching him close as his orgasm swept through at last, hips jerking and teeth clacking against Draco’s with the shudders wracking his body. He thought he’d probably spurted all over Draco’s front, mussing his shirt with white stripes of spunk, but for once Draco was beyond caring, immediately shoving his hand into his own trousers, getting a hand on himself to stroke to completion. Harry brought both hands to bear, cupping Draco’s face and kissing with a much more practised technique, now he was coming down off his high. He stroked slow and lazy and carefully, tasting himself and Draco on the tip of his tongue and between his lips and behind his teeth. He kissed not because he wanted to—even though he did—but again to prove a point: they weren’t just _even_. They were a match, like he’d said. 

_Even_ implied they were the same, and that was so far from the reality of the situation it was laughable—but a match? _Oh_. Oh that was perfect, it really was, and how had Harry never seen it like that? Two people who never got on, who always clashed and brought out the absolute worst in one another—until they finally figured out how they were meant to fit together, and then everything just…slid into place. Slotted together, like they’d been carved from the same block. Two faces, on opposite sides, never meant to meet—and yet here they were.

“Harry…Harry, _fuck_,” Draco whined against his lips, arm jerking furiously as he worked himself. “I can’t—I can’t—”

Harry cocked his head to the side, leaning in to press a kiss just to the bit of skin in front of Draco’s ear, then whispered rough and ragged, “Then don’t.”

And Draco didn’t, convulsing in Harry’s embrace and spurting in his pants. He did that rather a lot, which had surprised Harry initially—he’d thought someone as prissy as Draco could be might care more about soiling their undergarments—but now just made him wonder if he didn’t like others seeing his bits. Who was the Puritan prude _now_?

Draco sank back down to his knees and slumped into the cradle made by Harry’s legs, sagging in exhaustion. His lids fluttered sleepily, and Harry wondered if he ought to cast a Cleaning Charm for them; he preferred to shower after a good wanking session, but he’d yet to figure out how the girls back in Seventh Year had convinced the Room to provide toilet facilities, and the most he or Draco had been able to manage was a chamber pot they simply Vanished once their needs had been met.

But his wand was in his pants, which Draco had stripped off and tossed over his shoulder. He might have used Draco’s wand, but the hawthorn wand was resting in its case, tucked away in a drawer of one of the several writing desks littering the Room, and the Ministry wand could only perform rudimentary Scouring Charms, which were not meant to be cast anywhere near sensitive body parts. 

“…Summon my wand for me?” he asked, giving his knee a bounce to jostle Draco awake.

“Summon it yourself,” Draco groused, voice raspy.

“You know I’m pants at wandless casting. Or do your fancy Cleaning Charm on me—I’m all sticky.”

Draco lifted his head, eyes squinting and nose wrinkling. “Merlin’s balls, the afterglow’s _wasted_ on you, isn’t it?”

“Afterglow?” Harry quirked a brow. “Gonna crawl up into my lap while we whisper sweet nothings into each other’s ears?”

And to his surprise, Draco did crawl up into his lap, unfolding his long legs with nary a wince and settling draped across Harry on the couch. He waved a hand over himself with a whispered incantation, and the dark spot over his crotch and the lines of spunk spattered over his shirtfront vanished. After a moment’s consideration, as if deciding whether or not Harry deserved it, he did the same for Harry, sending his magic skittering over Harry’s bare skin and leaving a pleasant tingling sensation in its wake. 

Harry shivered, grinning. “Brilliant. Thanks.”

“Hush,” Draco said, laying a nuzzling little kiss over the sensitive bit of skin just below Harry’s ear. It sent a painful shiver down his spine, still too sensitive in his refractory period. “More sweet nothings.”

“Er…” Harry found he didn’t rightly know what exactly qualified as a ‘sweet nothing’, but he supposed a compliment was warranted. “That was…um, nice.”

“_Nice_?” Draco drew back, lip curled, and he boxed Harry’s ear. “It was _fucking amazing_. Try and tell me otherwise, I challenge you.”

“First off, _ow_, that fucking hurt. And second—” Harry pursed his lips, dropping his voice—he didn’t know why, it just didn’t seem like the sort of thing you said at a normal volume. “All right, yes, it was _great_. I quite liked it.”

“You ‘quite liked it’…”

What was he meant to say? Harry rolled his eyes and huffed. “Shall I compose poetry about it? Have Peeves swing from the chandelier in the Great Hall and recite it at dinnertime? _There once was a young man from Slyth’rin, whose fingers were perfect for diddlin’_…”

Draco made a face, shaking his head. “Good gad, that’s horrible—_Slytherin_ and _diddling_ don’t even rhyme.”

“Well apologies I can’t claim to hold a candle to your poetic genius.”

“Oh come now, that would have been asking for a _miracle_.” He gave Harry a searching sidelong look. “…You’re—all right, then?”

“All right?” Harry snorted. “Feeling pretty fantastic, really.” He squirmed a bit, wincing. “Feels a little—weird—down there, still, but…” He shrugged. “I think I see what the fuss is about now.”

Draco lifted a brow. “You really think anyone’s making a ‘fuss’ about one measly little finger?”

Harry felt his ears get hot. “Well, no, of course not—but it’s a start, isn’t it?” He studied Draco, carefully. “Er, did you…want me to…?”

“Stick your finger up my arse?”

Well, that answered that question: there was evidently no delicate or genteel way of describing the act, else he was certain Draco would have used it, somehow making it sound like taking tea with the Minister.

Draco settled one arm over the back of the couch, propping his head up, cool as anything. “Did you _want_ to?”

Harry’s first instinct was to say no, of course not, but when he stopped thinking about what he’d be doing and concentrated more on what he’d be _seeing_, what sorts of reactions it might draw from Draco, his throat went dry, and he could but nod helplessly. 

Draco snorted softly. “Noted. But steady on—we’ll work our way up to it. No need to be Gryffindors about this business, after all.”

For once, Harry agreed. “Suppose there’s something to be said for…taking it slowly.”

“Indeed. But not too slowly.” Draco fixed him with a sharp look. “I won’t expect all this dithering when it’s _my_ turn. I know what I’m about, and you’d better as well, or else I’ll put those self-diddling spells to good use.” He rolled off of Harry and up onto his feet, smoothing the wrinkles from his uniform. “And I won’t let you watch.”

Right. Harry was definitely going to have to brush up on his wandless Cleaning Charms.

He had never been remotely sexually adventurous before; his celebrity meant that, even if he’d been amenable to it, a fun one-night stand with any old witch or wizard had been out of the question, unless he wanted to relive the experience in living colour on the front page of the next day’s _Prophet_. There were Muggles, of course, but like he’d told Draco: he liked to feel something for the person he was with. Something more tangible than could be gleaned from a _Your place, or mine?_ or a silently crooked finger from a stranger across a bar. 

And he did feel that something for Draco. He didn’t quite know what it was, ineffable and inexplicable, but it was _something_, and it was enough. Draco would not sell his story to the _Prophet_—even though he’d done just that once upon a time, so Harry really shouldn’t have been quite so trusting—and he would not do anything to fracture this fragile connection they’d forged, not least of all because they were close enough now they could do each other grievous harm, so it served them well to take care with one another. He would not push, at least not more than Harry could take, and wasn’t that the entire point? A challenge he could meet that wouldn’t subsume him—a match. 

_But only inside this Room_, an insidious little voice whispered to Harry, nipping away at the fuzzy good feelings that had been buzzing about his head. 

He’d been hearing that voice a lot more lately—and too often for comfort, it sounded like Draco. Perhaps because it was just the sort of thing Draco would say—_had_ said, in a way, every time he turned down an invitation to lunch at the Gryffindor table or organise another Hogsmeade outing or join Harry and Ron for a post-prandial game of wizarding chess back in their Common Room. The Room was as much his prison as his sanctuary these days, and Harry was, as ever, his one and only request. 

Despite his reassurances to Draco, though, Harry did catch himself wondering in idle moments if there hadn’t been some way, somehow, this might have ever happened in his own timeline. Of course not towards the end there, once things had spiralled beyond control, but perhaps if Draco had quietly continued his community service after graduating Hogwarts. He might have worked on the custodial staff at the Ministry, and perhaps he and Harry might have run into one another when Harry hung back after hours doing research for a case. Or maybe he would have buckled down and continued his education, going on to a residency at St. Mungo’s (Harry certainly spent enough time there they might have been best mates by now) or setting up his own magical mending shop—he was very resourceful when it came to repairs, after all. 

It hadn’t happened, no—but it _could_ have. That Harry was sitting here, bare-arse naked on a hideous green divan still marvelling at the vivid flesh memory of Draco’s slender fingers poking about his arse, was testament enough to that. So that insidious little voice could shove it. There were no limits—certainly none that Harry had ever recognised. So maybe _only inside this Room_ for now. But not forever. He’d see to that.

Because this, tentative and fresh and novel as it was, could not possibly be contained. It was the first time something had really been new for the _both_ of them, completely unexpected and seemingly impossible, and it fired Harry’s blood, excitement thrilling through him at for once not knowing what might come next. He’d spent so much time worrying about changing _Draco’s_ life for the better, he’d never stopped to really consider how his own life was changing as well. Not his future, perhaps, but himself. Who he was. What he wanted. 

“Mmph!” 

Rough fabric struck him in the face before plopping into his lap: his trousers, chucked at him by Draco.

“You’ll be late for Charms if you don’t stop your daydreaming.”

Harry shook out the material, toeing his pants and trousers on in one go. “How come _you’re_ never almost late for anything?”

“Good breeding. Time management is in my blood.”

“That doesn’t make any sense…” Where had his shoes gone? He fished around in his pocket for his wand, Summoning them—and nearly getting brained by a trainer zooming for his head. “Are you even taking any classes besides Arithmancy? I feel like that’s the only class I ever see you studying for.”

“Think I made up Ancient Runes just to fuck with you, do you?”

“You’d do that…” Harry muttered under his breath, tugging his undershirt on over his head. His glasses caught on the collar, and he winced. When he finally managed to pull it down, smoothing the fabric, Draco was stood before him, holding Harry’s schoolbag out for him. He might have been touched by the gesture, were Draco not wearing an expression of mild disgust and holding the bag at arm’s length, as if its faux-leather make offended his sensibilities. Harry snatched it up, slinging it over his shoulder. “Thanks.”

“Well I certainly won’t be responsible for you failing your N.E.W.T.s. What would the world do without the dashing crack Auror Harry Potter?”

“Mm. Maybe save itself for once?” He bumped Draco’s shoulder as he made for the door, turning on his heel and giving a salute as he backed out the door. “Have fun in whatever made-up class you’re whiling away your afternoons at.”

Draco showed him a couple of fingers, and Harry practically bounced down the seventh-floor corridor to Charms, a spring in his step and a full-faced grin on his lips.

Despite the moving staircases being unusually compliant, Harry still wound up slipping into the Charms classroom three minutes late, but Flitwick pretended not to notice as he slinked over to his seat next to Ron.

“What did I miss?” he asked, as Flitwick proceeded to Charm a dress to mend its own rip, the needle lazily threading through the fabric as it stitched the hole closed.

Ron gave him a sidelong look. “Just a—_hngh_.” His words cut off, and he made a funny noise in his throat, like he’d just swallowed a Snidget, seizing up next to Harry. Several pairs of eyes swivelled over to them, and Flitwick frowned, dropping his wand.

“Are you quite all right, Mr. Weasley?”

Ron waved him away, a bright smile pasted on his lips. “I’m—fine, Professor. Grand.”

Flitwick inclined his head, and once he’d turned back to his swishing and flicking, Harry prodded Ron gently. “…Oi, what’s wrong?”

Ron fixed him with a look of desperate betrayal, pointing to Harry’s neck and hissing, “You—there’s a—_on your_…” His shoulders slumped, and he whined softly. “Mate…”

Harry brought his hand up, reflexively brushing his fingers over where Ron had pointed—and blanched. He had a good idea what had caught Ron’s eye. He swallowed and said, because he could think of nothing else on the fly, “It’s from Care of Magical Creatures.”

“_What_?”

“We were de-Doxying the Thestral barn.”

“Hagrid’s got a funny affinity for beasts that are better left alone, sure, but I _really _don’t reckon he had you necking with the little bugg—_ow_!” Hermione had just elbowed him sharply from Ron’s other side, and the Ravenclaws present were all giving the three of them looks that promised swift retribution if they didn’t start showing their Head of House the proper respect as he lectured.

Harry sank low in his chair, feigning a fervent interest in the Household Charms they’d been studying all week. He certainly hadn’t been trying to _keep_ his liaisons with Draco from his friends, but he sure as hell hadn’t gone out of his way to let them know what sorts of things they got up to in the Room that were decidedly _not_ N.E.W.T.-relevant material. Besides, how were they to know it was Draco? Perhaps Ron was just sore Harry hadn’t immediately informed his best friend he’d found a companion with whom he could do a bit of that _canoodling_ Ron and Hermione seemed to enjoy. Perhaps—

Oh, who was he kidding? Of _course_ Ron knew it was Draco. This Harry surmised from the fact Ron had awkwardly angled himself in his chair so as to place his back to Harry for the remainder of the lesson. He’d nearly thrown a fit at the mere thought of Harry inviting Draco into the Common Room for post-Quidditch merriment. It was a wonder he hadn’t started vomiting slugs again at the sight of the love bite branded on Harry’s neck. 

There was nothing to be done for it during Charms, though, so Harry kept his head down and did his level best not to attract any more attention until Flitwick dismissed them for their afternoon free period. Draco would be in classes until dinnertime, so there was no point in rushing back to the Room, but all the same, Harry kind of wanted to make a quick exit until he figured out just how you broke it to your best mate you might have taken the phrase ‘keep your enemies closer’ entirely too literally.

He needn’t have worried, though—Ron was out the door like a shot before Flitwick’s voice had even died away, nearly tripping over his own two feet in his rush. Harry opened his mouth to call him back, then recalled he hadn’t a clue where to start. Space was what they needed anyway; he’d find Ron after dinner, and then they’d have a nice, long, terribly awkward chat, and this would be something they laughed about when Harry inevitably found his way back to the future. _“Hey, remember that time?” “Like it was literally yesterday, mate.”_ Those would be the days.

“On your feet, Harry Potter,” someone hissed in his ear, and he abruptly found himself jerked from his chair by a vise-like grip on his arm. Hermione’s fingers were digging painfully into the meat of his bicep as she dragged him from the classroom, her march one of a witch on the warpath.

He let himself be manhandled out the door and down the hallway, until Hermione found an unused classroom and shoved Harry through the doorway, locking the door tight behind them with a spell whose counter Harry did not know. He glanced about, squinting in the dim light, and belatedly realised this was the same unused Potions lab into which Draco had dragged Harry to rough him up for meddling in Lucius’s dispensation. Damn. Nothing good ever happened to him in here.

“Are you _out of your mind_, Harry James Potter?” And oh, they’d graduated from first and family names to _full_ names now; she was going to rip him to pieces. “You’d better have a _damn_ good explana—no. _No._” She threw her hands into the air. “There _is_ no explanation! There is _no_ excuse for you—_getting involved_ with Draco Malfoy. I let the DA business go, I let you skive off research, I let Christmas come and go because I _trusted you_. I trusted that you genuinely had the best of intentions, that things would work out because, for you, somehow they always do, and now _this_?” Her voice went high and manic at the end, and between her dancing eyes and her bushy head of hair, she looked not a little bit mad. “And you’d better be glad _I’m_ the one in here right now—because if Ron weren’t still _reeling_, he’d be trying to beat some sense into you, or else be rummaging through Slughorn’s stores trying to find a Bezoar to shove down your throat and counteract what he’s desperately hoping is a Love Potion you’ve been slipped.” 

Harry finally found his voice. “I haven’t been slipped a—”

“Of course you haven’t. He isn’t stupid. He just thinks that maybe if he doesn’t acknowledge it, then it isn’t really happening.” She leaned back against one of the desks, rubbing her face with a groan. “Harry…I’m serious, _what_ were you thinking?”

He did not say the first thing that came to mind: that he _hadn’t_ been thinking. He also did not say how he didn’t see what there really was to think about. “I…it just—happened. It’s really not—”

“How long?”

“Huh?”

“_How long_ since it ‘just happened’? Are we talking right before you showed up for Charms—or longer term?”

“…Er, well, I guess it was…around when his dad died…”

She groaned. “_Harry_! That was over a _month_ ago!”

“Well, yeah? I mean, it’s not…not going _terribly_, so—”

She covered her ears, shaking her head. “No! No, I don’t want to hear about it, for _so many_ reasons, several of which have nothing to do with damaging the timeline. It’s only—” She darted forward, taking his hands in her own and peering up at him with wide, brown eyes. She looked tired—not quite as tired as she’d look seven years hence, after the Ministry had started draining her and demanding more and more and more, but nearabouts. A pang of guilt twisted in his stomach, and he half-wished he hadn’t kissed Draco in the first place. She was running herself ragged for him, and here he was—inadvertently, and with the very best of intentions—making matters even more difficult. “Harry, I don’t…I don’t think you’re really considering.”

“Considering what?” He hoped they weren’t about to row over whether or not Draco _deserved_ Harry’s attentions. _Again_. He’d already had it from her and Ron at Christmas, and if they couldn’t see Draco’s worth, that was their loss. 

“Considering the _consequences_.”

He rolled his eyes. “God, I _know_ there might be consequences, but I highly doubt—”

“I don’t mean with the timeline, Harry.” She gave him a long look, brows raised hopefully as she seemed to will him to put the pieces together—before deciding to do as she always did and spell it out for him. “I mean _when you go back_.”

Harry stiffened, straightening with a frown. “…Well of course…I mean…”

He didn’t know what he meant, though. Because her words were still ringing in his ears: _when you go back_. And of course not a day had gone by that he hadn’t thought about it, about how he wasn’t meant to be here, how this was temporary, until he got Draco up on his feet and could then focus on getting back to his proper time. And while he had always known he would miss the new friends he’d made—Zabini was actually pretty laid back, claiming that stress was shit for the complexion, and even Parkinson had mellowed out a bit since trying to get the entire school to turn him over to Voldemort (probably Parvati’s influence, bless her)—this was the first time he thought he might actually have _regrets_.

He’d miss out on _seven years_ of time with these people. Ron and Hermione he would always have a history with, and Ginny and Luna and Neville and everyone—but the new DA members? The Slytherins? _Draco_? 

There’d be so much time lost. So many memories he wouldn’t have. Milestones he would miss, achievements he wouldn’t be there to celebrate.

Well that just figured, didn’t it? He’d come here—admittedly accidentally—to try and avoid having regrets…but he was going to leave with heaps of them all the same. 

“I…I wasn’t thinking—I mean, it’s not like I _meant_ to…”

“I know,” she said, soft with understanding. “But you _need_ to think about it. Now. Because the longer this goes on, the more it’s going to hurt when you leave. Hurt the _both_ of you.”

Harry felt his ears burning as he ducked his head. “It’s not—really, it’s not that _serious_, and Draco—”

She covered her ears again, yelping. “Harry Potter, I told you _I did not want details_.” She then let her arms fall back to her sides, fixing him with a look that was half pity, half fondness. “Whatever you may _think_ is happening, I feel confident it’s nothing close to what’s actually going on.”

Harry wrinkled his nose at the implication. “Now that’s not fair—”

“Harry, let’s not embarrass the both of us by you finishing that sentence and making me bring up all the instances you showed that to be a _perfectly_ fair assessment of your emotional intelligence.” She sighed, crossing her arms over her chest. “You know what I’m going to tell you now, right?”

He did in fact know, because it was the same thing she said most every time they spoke these days. Still, if Ron could get away with ignoring uncomfortable truths, then so could Harry. “…That we should be using Protection Spells?”

Hermione’s knees buckled, and she gripped the edge of the table to keep her wobbling knees from giving out. She swallowed thickly, then said, very slowly, “…Part of me wants to say that yes, of course, you should be using those—but another part of me desperately wants to Obliviate myself so I forget you even _suggested_ that you and Draco Malfoy were…”

“Canoodling?” Harry offered, because now that he could see his friends weren’t going to disown him for behaving like a teenager with someone who’d made their school lives a living hell, he wanted to see how far he could stretch their good will.

She pursed her lips. “You promised me, Harry. By _Christmas_, and you seemed like…well, like things were ‘delicate’ after the new term started, which I can now see was a _drastic_ underestimation of the actual situation, so I let it drag on a bit longer than I really should have, but you _have to_. You _have_ to go to McGonagall about this now. Tell her the truth, get the Ministry involved if necessary, and _get back to when you belong_.”

“But—” he started, not entirely sure how he was going to finish. A good thing, as Hermione didn’t let him.

“Our research has turned up bunk! Not that you’d know, since you’re never around these days, leaving me and Ron to do all the dirty work—” He did not make a joke about all the ‘dirty work’ he and Draco had been getting up to in their own ways, but he very much wanted to. “—But funnily enough, all the books on magical creatures capable of rearranging timelines are _very _hard to get hold of, legally or otherwise.” She drew close, laying a hand on Harry’s arm and squeezing gently. “…Maybe you’ve gotten used to being back here, maybe you _like_ being here more than in your own time, for whatever reason—” He tried not to wince as her words hit his target dead-on, but he didn’t know if he’d been successful. “—But Harry…it’s time. It really is. This problem is bigger than any of us, so it’ll require more than just us to solve. This isn’t Horcruxes. We _can_ ask for help. And I think we have to.”

And Harry knew that she was right. She usually was, being Hermione, and he didn’t always agree with her—not at first, at least—but that didn’t have much bearing on whether or not she knew what she was talking about. 

He pinched the bridge of his nose, lifting up his glasses to scrub at his eyes. “…Listen, I don’t want you to think that I don’t well know I’m not meant to be here. And that every day I spend here, every hour, every minute, is more time I have to change something, whether I mean to or not, that can’t be undone. Some things, yeah, I think _should_ be changed—some bits of the future _should_ be undone—so I guess we’ll have to agree to disagree that just because it happened once one way it _has_ to happen the same way again. But I know I’ve got to go back.” He stopped short of confirming her subtle accusation that maybe a small part—infinitesimal, really—didn’t entirely mind if he wound up stuck here, having to live the past seven years all over again armed with enough knowledge he could make sure all the terrible things that had come to pass before _didn’t_ this time around. “I do, really, I just…” His shoulders slumped. “I still don’t feel like I’ve done _enough_ for him. He still hasn’t got a clue what he wants to do with his life, or how I can help him make sure he avoids any entanglements that’ll set him on the path to the Kissing Chamber, and—and it’s not even been a month since he lost his dad.” 

“…Harry,” she started, gently but firmly, “You must understand it’s not your job to—”

“I _know_ it’s not my job—don’t you think I realise that? Don’t you think I _know_ this has jack-all to do with Auroring?” He crossed his arms petulantly.. “Ron’s not the only one who deals with uncomfortable situations by just not talking about it.”

She seemed taken aback—and Harry didn’t blame her. He hadn’t quite meant to say that, not least because he hadn’t really acknowledged it anywhere outside his own head before: that yeah, there _was_ something special, something ineffably intriguing—a draw, a pull, all right, an _obsession_—about Draco Malfoy that some innate part of Harry refused to let him ignore, even at peril to his own life. Perhaps it was for the best Draco not come Auroring with him in the future; there was no telling how further distraction might affect his evidently already poor work performance.

“I have to do this. I _have_ to. If I don’t, if I go back and _nothing’s changed_, then I’ll regret it for the rest of my life. I…” He shook his head. “I know I can’t stay here indefinitely. I can’t—hold his hand the whole way, and eventually I’ll have to let him stand on his own two feet. And I will. Just—not yet. Please don’t ask me to just yet. This is my one shot, Hermione. One chance to save his life. I need to do it right.”

Hermione scuffed the toe of her loafer on the floor with a frown, arms crossed over her chest, and she sighed. “…I’d be tempted to suspect he really _had_ drugged you with a Love Potion of some sort for how dramatic you’re being about all this, but I know well from experience this is just Harry Potter on a Tuesday.” She sighed. “If you won’t go to McGonagall right away, then I need you to do something for me.”

“Anything.”

She fixed him with a hard look—and he immediately regretted his words. 

“Talk to him.”

Harry frowned. “…Ron?”

“_Malfoy_ of course. You do _talk_, don’t you? Between all your—canoodling?”

“Of _course_ we—” Harry sputtered, ears burning. “You know we do!”

“Good. Then it shouldn’t be any great trial to do so now. Tell him our research has turned up nothing—that we’re at a dead end. See what _he_ thinks you ought to do. It’s his life, after all, and I think he deserves some say in just how much more meddling he must endure from you.”

Harry’s jaw hardened. “…You know what he’ll say.”

“No I don’t. And neither do you. You won’t, until you ask him.”

“You _do_ know. You know how he is, as well as I do. We grew up with him, for god’s sake: The stubborn little prick will send me away, even though there’s still good I can do here. He’ll do it because he’d rather fail on his own than ask for help and succeed. He’s his own worst enemy, and you want to me _give him a weapon_?”

“No. I want you to _talk to him_. I feel like you probably don’t do enough of that either way, with _or_ without the ‘canoodling’. Talk about why you’re here, talk about when you plan to leave—talk about what he can do to help you get back to when you need to be. He _is_ stubborn, and a prick—I’ll certainly give you that—but he’s also reasonably clever, and you could use a bit of cool calculation to quench your fiery boneheadedness.”

Harry patted his hair reflexively. “I’m not a bonehead…”

“You’re a little bit of a bonehead, Harry. But Malfoy seems to like you all the same, so there’s that.” She shook her sleeve, and a black hairband slid down to her wrist. She used it to attempt to tame her bushy locks into something more manageable. “So? Will you speak to him?”

“…He has Arithmancy in the afternoon. Or Runes, or something. I’m actually not even sure he’s actually taking half the classes he claims he is…”

“_Talk to him_,” Hermione said again, giving his shoulder a shove as she made for the door. “And then find some time to talk to Ron, too, if you can.”

“You think Ron’ll even speak to me?”

She shouldered the door open. “He will if he ever wants to canoodle again.”

And then she was gone, and Harry was left alone, with rather a lot of thinking to do before he did _any_ manner of talking. With anyone.

Deciding his protests that Draco had classes in the afternoon granted him at least twenty-four hours’ grace, Harry took himself to the library—the first time he’d been there since…he couldn’t quite remember (N.E.W.T.s studying the first time around? Maybe?)—found a study nook blessedly unoccupied by eager Ravenclaws, and began to draft a letter to Ron, because not in fourteen years now had either of them learned how to talk matters out without letting their baser emotions get the better of them. Hermione had recommended the letter-writing bit early on in Harry’s—and Ron’s at the time—Auror training, claiming it had done wonders in helping her communicate her thoughts to her parents after the war without her emotions getting in the way, as they were wont to do with family. Since Harry and Ron were as good as family, she’d suggested they give it a go, and while he would not claim the approach had solved _all_ problems, it had certainly led to fewer blow-ups and quicker resolutions, as they were neither of them all that adept at expressing themselves on the fly.

Draco, however, would not appreciate a letter. He wouldn’t appreciate dialogue, either, but he’d prefer it to a one-sided letter where he’d be deprived of the pleasure of socking Harry in the jaw or unloading on him with an eloquent diatribe. No, there would have to be actual _talking_ with that one, if he was to do as Hermione asked in exchange for an extension on his promise to take his case to McGonagall. 

Maybe it wouldn’t be as bad as all that, though. Hermione was right: Draco was very clever, and he liked puzzles. He was not so good with strategy games, but he had a sharp mind and tended to see things—solutions—others couldn’t, or else didn’t want to. He would throw up his walls and don his mask again the moment Harry reminded him how Draco’s quandary was keeping Harry from returning to his proper time, of this Harry was certain, but they could be taken down again. Harry was beginning to learn how Draco ticked—where he could be pressed and made to buckle, and where he could be tugged and encouraged to follow. 

He could do this, speak to Draco like an adult, and not muck things up.

He only needed to take F’s advice and not be so Harry Potter about it all.

“What the hell are you doing?” Ron said.

Harry straightened abruptly. He’d had his letter to Ron—folded and sealed—halfway into the space under the closed door to their room, prepared to slide it through so that Ron might find it when he came up to change for dinner. Letters were meant to be delivered indirectly, after all. That was the entire point of writing a letter over having a straightforward conversation. He clutched the parchment to his breast. “Er—I was…” And now that he was here, standing before Ron, it felt silly. This wasn’t Ron seven years from now. This was Ron _right now_, and he was hurt Harry had kept something from him—something that best mates usually told each other. At least, he hoped that was why Ron was angry with him—if it was more of a _Malfoy_ thing than a _fooling around with someone_ thing, he needed to be holding an entirely different letter right about now. “I thought…maybe we could talk.”

Ron’s eyes flicked down to the letter. “And that?” When Harry tried to stuff it into his pocket, he sniffed, “Love letter for Malfoy, then?”

“…Sure. A sonnet in three parts. It’s pretty filthy, so it’s probably not very good. Not a lot of words that rhyme with ‘starkers’.”

The humour went unremarked. Ron brushed past him, stony-faced, and entered their room, tugging his tie off as he went. Harry glanced down at the letter, bereft, and decided there was nothing for it. Actual talking it would have to be.

“I was looking for you,” Ron said, clearly having come to the same conclusion. He had his back to Harry, wrenching his shoulder to doff his school robes. Harry mutely did the same, keeping well clear of Ron in case he decided he might like to take a swing at Harry for any of a half dozen different good reasons. “Hermione said—well, that I ought to talk to you. And I didn’t want to. Still don’t, if I’m being honest. But she…made a convincing argument, so I went looking. You weren’t in here, or in the Common Room. You weren’t out on the Pitch or in the Courtyard, so—I assumed.”

“…Assumed?”

Ron turned to face him, shoulders slumped. “Assumed you were—you know, with him. In the Room of Requirement, where you practically _live_ these days.” He sent his robes and tie back into his wardrobe with a flick of his wand, where they hung themselves up smartly so they wouldn’t wrinkle. “But I couldn’t get the door to appear for me, no matter how I phrased myself, and I must’ve worn a trench in the flagstones marching up and down that hallway.” He flopped down onto his bed, staring blankly up at the ceiling. “So I came back here to get changed for dinner. I thought even if you didn’t want to talk to me, at least you couldn’t avoid me at the tables.”

“I wasn’t avoiding—” Harry started. “I thought _you_ were avoiding—” And this was why they wrote letters now. He sighed. “You stormed out of Charms like I’d just pissed all over a Cannons pennant. I assumed you wanted some space.” He reached into his pocket, drawing out the crumpled parchment. “…Hence the letter.”

Ron eased up onto his elbows and held out a hand, waiting, and Harry carefully placed the letter in it. “Better not _actually_ be a filthy love sonnet now,” he muttered as he shifted upright and tore at the seal.

“I don’t really know what a sonnet is, to be honest.”

Ron’s eyes bounced from side to side as he read the letter, mouthing the words to himself with a studious frown. It was not a very long letter—Ron did not appreciate essays, whether he was reading them or writing them—but he still took his time, signalling he was finished by carefully folding the letter and setting it on his nightstand. He scrubbed at his hair, shrugging. “…It’s not cause it’s _Malfoy_, you know. I mean, it is a little cause it’s him, but that’s not—you can’t think I’d—” He sighed, staring up at Harry, who was clinging to one of the posts on his bed. “…I know I give you shit about him, and I know I haven’t been the most…supportive. Of all this.” Harry thought he heard a bit of Hermione in there. “But just…I thought you’d tell me _anything_. We’re best mates, you were the first person I told I fancied Hermione—”

“Er—no I wasn’t?”

“You weren’t?” Ron frowned. “Sure you were. In Fourth Year, there was that misunderstanding, and then we cleared it up and all was good again.”

“…I remember you throwing a strop and not talking to me for, like, three weeks because the _Prophet_ had run some nonsense suggesting Hermione and I were together. I remember _that_.”

“…Well, yeah. _Obviously_ that was why.” He made a vague gesture that Harry was evidently supposed to understand. “And because we’re best mates, I…you know. Made it known.”

Harry didn’t quite remember it the same way as Ron but decided he’d just chalk it up to misremembering and let it lie. “Right.”

Ron’s brow furrowed in concern, and he licked his lips nervously. “Harry, are we…are we not that close anymore? I mean, in the future? I know you’re not supposed to say, but—do we—”

Oh _bugger_. “We’re close, Ron,” he hurried to reassure. “Of _course _we are. We have lunch almost every day together—all three of us. It’s not that, honest it’s not.” He sprang away from his bedpost and settled on the mattress beside Ron, who looked genuinely fearful Harry was about to tell him their entire relationship fell apart after Hogwarts and they barely exchanged Season’s Greetings these days.

“Then _what_? Cause, and I don’t mean anything by it, but I feel like this is—well, kind of a _big thing_.” Ron gave him a sidelong look. “…Is it a ‘Malfoy’ thing again? Cause I’ve never noticed you eyeing up blokes before…” He jolted upright with a gasp. “_Shit_, is _that_ why you dumped Gin? Are you—not that there’s anything wrong with—but _are_ you?”

Harry wondered which of the fifteen questions he’d just had thrown his way he ought to answer first—then found he did not think he could answer any. “I realise this isn’t going to be a very satisfying response, but: I don’t know.”

“You don’t know—what? If you’re—”

“Any of it. If it’s a Malfoy thing. If it’s why Ginny and I didn’t work out. Or if I’m even _really_ into…” But he had to be, didn’t he? At least a little? The thought certainly didn’t turn him off, at least. He hadn’t stopped to consider it, in the month or so since it’d become relevant, but while there’d been Ginny and Cho, there’d also been—in his wandering idle thoughts—a bit of Cedric as well. And Wood. And maybe a dash of Bill. Nothing _lurid_, but then he’d never really had terribly lurid thoughts about Ginny or Cho either. 

He _definitely_ had lurid thoughts about Malfoy, though. Was trying not to have them right this very moment, in fact, because it was rude to pop one when your best mate was having a heart-to-heart with you, wasn’t it?

“…You have _any_ clue what you’re doing, Harry?”

Harry wiped his face with a wince—even when he wasn’t trying to channel Hermione, Ron still managed to sound like her. “Not really, no. Just…playing it by ear, mostly. Doing what feels right.”

“…And _Malfoy_ feels right? Seriously? After everything he’s done? Your nose is _still_ a bit crooked from where he smashed it, you know. _Episkey_ isn’t flawless.”

Harry reflexively touched his nose, and sure enough, he could feel the little bump that must have been there since Sixth Year but which he had only just now noticed. Great, now he’d _never_ be able to ignore it. Did it make his glasses sit funny on his face? Had he been wandering around with slightly crooked glasses since age sixteen without really noticing? 

“…It’s not exactly something one really has any control over, is it? Don’t you think I’d have chosen someone else, if I’d been able to?”

It was a bit of a trick question; Harry didn’t think he really _wanted_ anyone else. But was that because he just fancied Draco _that_ much, or because he didn’t have any control over it? If you were penned in by biology or magic or fate or _whatever_, how were you to truly know, if there was no evidence otherwise?

Ron wrinkled his nose. “…Yeah, suppose you would’ve. Blimey, but I feel for you then.” He elbowed Harry gently. “…Still narked off you didn’t tell me, though. Or at least Hermione, if you thought I’d take it poorly.”

Harry rubbed at the back of his neck. “Er, well, it kind of happened suddenly, and I’ve been…distracted…”

“I bet you have…” Ron muttered.

“I meant with everything! Not just—and I would’ve told you eventually. Obviously.”

“You would?” Ron raised a brow.

“Of course. I tell you all the important stuff that happens to me. And the unimportant stuff. This was just…” Harry shrugged. “Well it’s not exactly something I make a habit of, is it?”

“Blokes? Or Malfoy?”

“Well seeing as Malfoy’s _dead_ where I’m from, _yeah_ Malfoy. But I guess blokes too.”

“Oh fuck.” Ron went white. “That’s right. He _is_ dead. Shit.” He furrowed his brow in suspicion. “…Is _that_ why you really came back then?”

Harry stared at him, deadpan. “…You think I got myself bit by an illegally trafficked magical creature and travelled seven years back in time _just_ so I could have a shot with Draco Malfoy?”

Ron gave a half-hearted shrug. “…Would’ve been about par for the course with you and him.”

Harry thumped him on the forehead. “_No_ it’s not why I came back. I mean—I didn’t come back to _be_ with him. I came back to…well, like I said: give him a second chance. Because I thought he deserved it. And—” He held a hand up to stop Ron’s inevitable protest. “I know you don’t think he _did_ deserve it, but I suppose that’s why I’m the one who walked into Charms with a love bite on my neck and not you.”

“Who says I didn’t walk into Charms with any love bites on my neck?” Ron said. “_Some_ of us just have the good sense to Glamour them before going out in public.”

Harry squinted at Ron’s neck, but either his spellwork was very good, or he was talking out of his arse. “…Well, the point is, that _no_ I didn’t bend space-time just to have a shot at shagging him—”

“_Shagging him_?” Ron shrieked, loud enough that surely anyone down in the Common Room could have heard—probably the Ravenclaws in their neighbouring tower too. 

“You can call it ‘canoodling’ if it makes it easier.”

“It really doesn’t…” Ron said queasily, rubbing his stomach. “And right before dinner, too. You’re gonna put me off my food.”

“Somehow I think you’ll recover.”

“If I do, it’ll be a near thing.” They were both grinning by now, and Harry felt like the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders. God but Ron was the best mate a guy could ask for. Even if you sometimes had to talk to him through letters. “…Are you happy, then?”

“Happy?”

“I mean—and maybe I was reading it wrong, because you know I can be thick—but…” He shrugged. “You seemed a little…lost. When you got here. You hadn’t exactly been a ray of sunshine before, but given you’re meant to be seven years past all of this—” Ron waved around them: the castle, the war, the loss, the memories. “—I’d have thought you’d be…well, a bit more settled?”

“As in—_married_?”

“As in _settled_, is all. I know you don’t have to have someone to be happy—Luna’s set up permanent shop on Cloud Nine sometimes it seems—but you still seem a little untethered, all the same. Aimless. And I don’t mean anything bad by it—I just wondered, is all. If, you know.” His voice went low and mumbly. “If he made you happy.”

And no, Harry thought. Draco did not make him happy. 

He drove Harry _mad_. He frustrated him. He confounded him. He made him second-guess every word that fell from his lips and take every step as if walking upon eggshells. Draco did not make him happy, in any sense of the phrase.

But he did make Harry feel accomplished. He made him feel hopeful. He made him excited and engaged and full of that wide-eyed naïve earnestness that lived within all good Gryffindors. He made Harry feel on the inside how he looked on the outside: like a teenager. The one he’d never really gotten to be before he’d been shoved into the role of Saviour of the Wizarding World without so much as a by-your-leave.

He didn’t _make_ Harry happy. He made it so Harry felt happy, all on his own, because whether Draco had meant to or not, he’d given Harry a second chance as well. 

Draco didn’t give a shit what Harry had done, or what Harry went on to do in the future. He lived in the present—lived for _himself—_and he made Harry live it there with him. He was selfish and proud and stubborn and clever and _everything_ Harry wasn’t (well, perhaps they were both a bit stubborn), and Harry had learned so much from him. 

And he really, truly was not ready to give it all up.

But he had promised Hermione, and now that he’d cleaned up one of his messes, he needed to go see about the other.

“He makes me feel—alive. I think maybe, for me, that’s even better than just being happy.”

Ron nodded, as if he understood, though Harry doubted he really did. Harry only half-understood it himself.

But then—Ron could be strangely insightful at the oddest of moments.

“Well, they do call you ‘the boy who lived’, right?” Ron said. “If he’s helping you feel more alive…then, I dunno. Maybe he’s helping you be more yourself.”

And maybe they didn’t really need letters after all.

Dinner came and went, and rather than try and corner Draco in the Room and risk a row right before bed, Harry decided he’d put off their ‘talk’ until the next day.

Except the next day came and went as well, with Harry honestly forgetting altogether he’d been meant to bring up the issue of undoing Mathilda’s handiwork.

The following day, he remembered—right in the middle of his morning shower wank, which had put a stop to _that_—but Draco had been in a foul mood because his latest Astronomy marks had been poorer than he’d expected. “It’s in my _fucking name_, I think I know where the damn constellation sits! Clearly my Dictaquill simply mismarked!” Concluding that any discussions of Harry’s situation would only sour Draco’s already dark mood further, he decided to wait another day.

He’d managed, to his astonishment, to put off the confrontation for nearly a week before Hermione’s knowing frowns got to be just too much, and after carefully mapping out a block of time on Sunday when neither of them had prior engagements nor any classes they might need to flit off to attend, Harry took a breath, steeled himself, and stepped in it.

“Hey, the, uh, Manor,” he said, because there was no way to meander around to the topic without arousing suspicion, so it would have to be a dead dive straight in before Draco could get his hackles up.

Draco was _scritch-scritch_ing away at one of his writing desks, because even though it was a lovely weekend afternoon, he somehow still felt like he needed to have his nose buried in schoolwork. It was like dating Hermione, sometimes. How did Ron stand it? 

He resolutely did not consider the many laudable traits Hermione might bring to bear in her relationship with Ron to outweigh her bookworm nature and instead cleared his throat when Draco didn’t immediately respond. “Draco?”

“What _of_ it?” Draco sighed. “Spit it out, if you’ve something to say. Despite what you might think, Ancient Runes _does_ exist, and I’m twelve inches short on this essay due next week.”

His tone was usually sharp, this Harry had come to expect—and even to enjoy, in a bizarre way—but their months together and the fact Harry paid undue attention to most all the things Draco said these days told him that the mere mention of his ancestral home had put Draco on edge. Perhaps diving straight in had _not_ been the way to go about this after all.

“Well, I was just wondering—see, it’s been around about six, seven months since I got here, yeah? And Hermione and Ron have been helping me do research—” He sent silent apology to Hermione for woefully misrepresenting his own role in their research efforts. “—On the Ouroboros that bit me. Like, how to undo its magic and send me back where I’m meant to be. Only, we’ve gone about as far as we can with the Hogwarts stacks, and we can’t really just pop off to London and ask to poke about in the National Archives at the Ministry without raising suspicion. So Hermione was thinking—well we were all wondering—if maybe there might be other…er, less-public resources we might could check. Like…well, doesn’t the Manor have a library? Probably a big one, yeah? Filled with, one has to imagine, books of…questionable legality and dubious provenance?” Draco had carefully set aside his quill now, done with his scritching, and was sat straight-backed in his chair staring at Harry with an unreadable expression. “Just, if we can’t make any further headway on our own, then we’re probably going to have to go to McGonagall to get me back to my proper time, and _that_ means going to the Ministry, essentially, and I’d really rather avoid having to endure the poking and prodding of curious Unspeakables who’ll probably be thrilled to have been assigned my case, if at all possible.”

He didn’t want Draco to think he was _trying_ to leave—because then he’d put one of those lovely leather loafers soundly up Harry’s arse and send him on his way out the door post-haste. But Harry had told Hermione he’d bring it up with Draco, so here he was, doing the next best thing: pulling Draco in on the project, formally. He probably ought to have done so from the outset, but well, they’d had more important matters to attend to, hadn’t they? Now, though, Draco was outstripping Harry in most subjects—Harry could still hold his own in Defence, at least, and had a narrow upperhand in Charms, though only from seven years more experience—and would handily manage at least an E on any N.E.W.T.s he sat.

But Draco didn’t seem very enthused by the unspoken invitation. On the plus side, he didn’t seem _angry_ either, but Harry had been hoping for…well, _some_ manner of reaction, so he knew how to proceed.

And then he thought about what he’d just proposed, really turned it over, and blanched. “Oh. Fuck. The Ministry’s repossessed the Manor, hasn’t it?” 

He’d _completely_ forgotten—though he failed to see how it had managed to slip his mind. It’d been in all the papers, after all—even the _Quibbler_ had run a piece on it, proposing that Malfoy Manor had not in fact been taken as reparations for the war but so that the Ministry might study the Wrackspurt colony that had taken up residence in one of the towers. 

Harry shook his head, running a hand through his hair in nervous habit. “I knew that, I think. I mean, I ought to have remembered it. I didn’t mean to…” He licked his lips, searching for a way to claw back some semblance of composure. “But—perhaps we can get permission to visit? All four of us—you and me and Hermione and Ron? It’s only, I…I don’t think they’d let you go alone, is all. Or if you don’t feel up to coming with, you could give us pointers on where to look?” It was still coming out _all_ wrong, though, and he sighed, practically pleading. “Just, Hermione’s _really_ concerned that the longer I’m here, the greater the chance I’ll muck up something I’m not meant to, and while you must know I’m dead set on doing what I came here for in the first place, I know I can’t stay here _forever._ So—so if between the four of us we can solve this ourselves, then all the better. And…” He trailed off, because Draco had stood abruptly, sending his chair scraping back, and he had his fists clenched—trembling—at his sides. Harry swallowed, keeping his seat in his armchair, because any false move might spook him. “…Draco?”

It was quiet between them—so quiet, he could hear Draco’s heavily drawn breath. If he listened hard, he thought he could even hear the tensing of a bowstring, drawing back and back and back until: “And then what happens?”

Harry blinked. “What happens…when?”

“When you ‘go back’, as you’re proposing I help you do.”

“I…” Was this meant to be a trick question? It didn’t sound like it on its face—but Draco’s tone did not suggest he was merely making conversation. Harry trod very carefully. “Well, I mean, I assume…time will continue on here, as it’s meant to?” That was the idea upon which they’d all been operating, and Hermione had certainly seemed to think that any changes Harry made here would be reflected in the future-to-come. He trusted her, even if he didn’t entirely trust himself. “But—” he hastened to add, “It’ll be a new future. Certainly not the one I came from, if we’ve done our job right. You’ll be able to shape it however you like, you’ll know what to do, what _not_ to do, and you’ll have people—_friends_—who’re willing to help you. Throw their weight around a bit for you. Or if that doesn’t suit, I’m sure at least one or two of them could be convinced to just have a drink with you.” He’d make sure of that, at least—Hermione and Ron loved him. Enough they’d watch over Draco, even when Harry couldn’t himself. “I’m assuming for me, once I’m back where I’m supposed to be, the timeline will have adjusted to whatever changes we’ve made here—and of course any you make going forward—and if you keep up your training—”

“Keep up my training,” Draco repeated flatly, jaw tight. “With _whom_?” He raked Harry with a scathing sneer. “_You_?” He then lashed out, kicking at the desk—and threw his hands in the air, pacing and laughing as he went, though decidedly not happily. “You are—” he began, then took a stuttering breath. “An absolute _fucking_ idiot and a fool, Potter. I know, I know! I shouldn’t be surprised. I really shouldn’t. But, hm. Perhaps the plentiful orgasms of late have addled my brain, and I gave you more credit than you deserved.”

Harry was used to the barbs and insults, he was, but he was utterly confounded as to what he’d done to deserve them. Sure, he’d expected Draco to be _contrary_, because he always was—he’d expected to be told to fuck off for the hundredth time, in all honesty. But this almost sounded like he was angry Harry’d even brought up the _subject_ of his return to the future. As if it was news to him. “What the bloody hell is your problem? Are you—are you _pissed off_ I’m going back? Why—” He released a sharp, baffled little laugh. “You act as if this is the first you’re hearing of it! You’ve known since day one we were trying to figure out a way to get me back to my proper time. Why are you suddenly so—”

Draco rounded on him, slipping in close like a snake about to strike, and his voice dropped to a low, slow hiss. “Let me spell it out slowly for you, so even an insipid little twat like you might understand: You’re this way, _we’re_ this way, because you’re _you_. _This _you.” He drew himself back and up, carefully pulling his fraying threads back into place. “And when you leave, when you finally fuck off, it won’t be _you_ here anymore. It’ll be the insufferable knob who wore your face before you. And he won’t remember any of _this_—” He waved about the Room. “—I’m willing to bet. He’ll hate me.” He released a rough, defeated huff. “Or worse. He won’t give _two fucks_ about me.”

Harry felt his stomach turn as the stark realisation of just what he would be leaving Draco to finally settled over him—and he thought he might be sick, all over Draco’s lovely polished loafers. Unbidden, the Room discreetly Conjured a pail just beside Harry’s armchair. 

Draco seemed to revel in the sight of Harry’s distress, though, arms crossed and tone clipped and bright. “So I’m to wait for you, was that it, then? Pining away, longing for the day when you became _you_? Farewell and see you in seven years—if that’s even how this all works?”

Harry’s heart stuttered. “What—what do you mean, ‘if that’s even how this all works’? Of course that’s how it—Hermione said—”

“Oh well if _Granger said_,” Draco mocked. “She’s a fucking teenager.”

“She’s the brightest witch of our age!”

“And her age is a _fucking teenager_. Your own Department of Mysteries didn’t know how the blasted snake worked, and you think _she_ does? From flipping through a few dusty tomes smuggled out of the Restricted Section of a _school library_? She doesn’t know shit about how this works.”

“And you do?” Harry could feel his temper rising, and he wanted to be on his feet, pacing like Draco, because confusion and fear were firing his blood and he had way too much energy to be sitting here sprawled across an armchair. 

“_Of course not_. That’s the _point_. Who’s to say you don’t just go back to your old future? Or to another future entirely? If Granger’s anywhere near the swot she’s played all these years, she’ll have done her homework on the Manifold Worlds theory—”

“What’s the—many-fold world theory?”

“_Manif_—” Draco started, then shook his head, roaring in frustration. He paced out a circle, massaging the bridge of his nose as he went and mouthing something to himself. Maybe he was trying to get the Room to kick Harry out again. Maybe he was trying to wandlessly cast an Unforgivable.

He took a moment to try and process Draco’s words: he didn’t rightly know what many-folded worlds were, but all the other stuff…well, he could gather the gist. At best, he’d be abandoning Draco here to the whims of a Harry Potter who hated him and would as soon knee him in the groin as offer to go to bat for him, at least at this point in their lives—and at worst…well, he’d be back where he’d started: Stuck in a future he’d spent six months trying to ensure didn’t come to pass, in a job he evidently wasn’t very good at and didn’t really like, with nothing left of Draco but a bitter memory and a wand under glass displayed in the Ministry Atrium.

_Consequences_, Hermione had said he’d be facing. And as ever, she’d been right.

He’d just…never considered it. What might become of the past, once he’d left it. Not _really_ considered it. He’d never really had a reason to, had he? He and Draco had barely been friends, for all the time they’d spent together in this Room over the months, so why should he have thought his leaving might unduly upset Draco? He’d certainly been told to _fuck off_ often enough.

But then Harry had gone and mucked everything up by getting _involved_, and of course Draco was pissed off. Harry was pissed off too now. At himself—at Mathilda—at Hermione and Ron for not _telling him_ he’d been gagging for Draco since forever. Because it’d always been him, hadn’t it? And maybe if Harry had seen it coming, maybe if he’d recognised it for what it was, maybe—

Well, maybe he wouldn’t have needed to come back here in the first place. 

So what was he meant to do now? Was he supposed to suggest Draco try and make nice with the other Harry? He dismissed the notion as soon as it entered his mind. He and the Harry Potter who actually belonged to this timeline were two entirely different people, with entirely different experiences. Draco had said as such on multiple occasions—Harry had just never really _listened_.

This Harry, the one who belonged here, would be eighteen, actually eighteen, and burned out from the war and tetchy and angry. He’d be keen to graduate and get on the Auror Force if only for the distraction, and he certainly wouldn’t want to waste his time consorting with ex-Death Eaters who’d helped make his and his friends’ lives miserable their entire school career. This Harry would be too broken to do anyone any good, and Draco didn’t have time to fix this Harry—he barely had time to fix _himself_ before it all went to shit.

Hermione and Ron would offer to help, however they could, but even if the other Harry actually believed what had happened (a tall order indeed), he would in all likelihood be appalled by the suggestion he continue to be friendly with Draco and refuse to have any part in whatever mad schemes his other self had been embroiled. He’d lash out—because that was what Harry did when he was angry and confused—and wind up saying something unspeakably cruel to Draco, and then they’d never talk to each other again. Harry would wake up, seven years hence, and Draco would be ice fishing on an Unplottable glacier in the Antarctic. And that would be if he was lucky.

He’d leave, and they wouldn’t be friends anymore—let alone anything else. 

_Pining away, longing for the day when you became you?_

He didn’t even have a word for what this was, fooling around as they were, but he knew what he’d hoped it might become. Someday. It’d been a fleeting fancy, a _wouldn’t it be funny if_ he’d entertained only because of how absurd he’d found it. Except it wasn’t so funny, now he was about to lose it. And Draco, for all his cool, smooth talk, clearly didn’t find it amusing either.

Hermione’s voice rang sharp and clarion in his mind, pleading with him, warning him that his best of intentions were going to backfire, that he was doing more harm than good, and clearly a decade-half _still_ wasn’t enough time to get it through his head that he really, _really_ ought to listen to her more often, as she generally always knew what was best.

Draco cursed loudly, and either having given up on whatever he’d been attempting to wandlessly cast or deciding he’d come too far with his rehabilitation to wind up chucked into Azkaban for succeeding, he wrenched the door to the Room nearly off its hinges, slamming it shut behind him as he made his exit. 

Harry sank deeper into his armchair, which he thought might be slowly expanding into a couch to accommodate him, and felt a wave of loss and confusion nearly subsume him. He’d fucked up—_really_ fucked up this time, fucked up in a way he ought to have seen coming but, in classic Harry Potter style, had merrily ignored until like a neglected Potions experiment, it’d bubbled over and destroyed half the lab. 

Staying here any longer than absolutely necessary had been every bit the mistake he’d been warned it was. He’d made a mad grab for what he’d thought was a second chance, realising only too late it’d merely been opportunity to accrue more loss in his already empty life. He really didn’t give a fuck about anyone but himself, did he? He told himself he did things for others, for the common good, for love and friendship and everything in between, but it all amounted to pretty much the same thing, didn’t it? It made _him_ feel better. And then he acted shocked, just utterly dumbfounded, when others got hurt in the doing. 

Well, he’d Conjured his armchair, and now he was going to have to sit in it. And all the Mathildas in the world wouldn’t be enough to let Harry set things right again this time.


	13. Chapter 13

He avoided Draco for several weeks—which was actually quite easy, as Draco was avoiding him as well. Harry did not visit the Room, and Draco stopped coming to DA meetings. They did not meet eyes over meals, and Harry did not ask after him from the mutual friends who shared classes with him. Parkinson, he thought, was giving him the stink-eye, but then she had always looked at him like he was covered in Bubotuber pus, so it was difficult to tell if there was any particular reason behind her sour looks. The one time he’d remarked, ever so casually, to Zabini that Draco wasn’t in attendance at a DA meeting, Zabini had merely shrugged, going through the motions of his Bedazzling Hex, and said, “He’ll come around, once he’s finished his tantrum. Chin up there, Saviour, and show me how my form’s wrong.”

Had this actually been his Eighth Year, Harry might have found it easy to distract himself with all the sorts of activities he would have been putting off in favour of spending time with Draco—Quidditch and Hogsmeade Weekends and avoiding preparing for his own N.E.W.T.s. But such efforts now were dogged by a dull, throbbing pain that was a constant backdrop to everything he did, like a rotting tooth. Guilt and confusion and frustration with both himself and, inexplicably, Draco ate away at him like an insidious case of Wasting Disease. 

Hermione must have surmised from Harry’s quiet demeanour and the fact he wasn’t cloistered in the Room at all hours now that his ‘talk’ with Draco had not gone quite as well as he might have hoped, for she did not pester him any further about his contributions to their research efforts or with whom and how he chose to spend his time. In fact, she didn’t speak to him much at all—though Ron at least was no longer avoiding him like the plague—and Harry forgot, very much by accident, that she’d been wanting him to come clean to McGonagall about who he was and when he was from so she could speak to the authorities about getting him sorted.

Forgot, until he wasn’t given much choice in the matter.

It was a dreary, overcast Saturday morning when Harry was awoken by someone, very softly, and very squeakily, calling his name. He willed his eyes to open, and after a few tries, they finally complied, sticky with sleep and refusing to bring the world into focus until Harry remembered he still needed glasses these days.

“Oh! Very good Mr. Harry Potter, Sir. You is awake.”

For certain definitions of ‘awake’, Harry supposed. He groped for his glasses, which were promptly pressed into his hand. “What time is it…?” he asked, still not sure to whom he was speaking. Then he slid his glasses on and saw: “…Oh.”

The House-Elf beamed up at him from beside his bed, his bat-like ears trembling with delight. “Good _morning_ Mr. Harry Potter, Sir! The hour is now being 7 o’clock!”

_Seven_. He never took breakfasts on Saturdays precisely because it was worth more to him to sleep in as late as he pleased than to have a full belly. If he slept ‘til lunch time, then he’d get his fill regardless, wouldn’t he?

“And why are you in my dorm room at 7 o’clock on a Saturday…er…”

“Dropsy, sir!”

“Eesh, now that’s an unfortunate name…” He wiped a hand over his face. “What can I do for you, Dropsy?”

The Elf held up a silver platter, atop which sat a card bearing his initials. He reached for it, pushing his glasses up and squinting at the loopy script, and mouthed the text to himself as he read: his presence was requested at his very earliest convenience—underlined twice, so that he understood this to mean _immediately_—in the Headmistress’s office. He was to come alone, he was to come directly, and he was not to tell anyone where he was going or why.

Harry’s gaze slid back to Dropsy. He waved the card. “…I’m not in trouble, am I?”

“Oh, Dropsy wouldn’t be knowing anything about that! Here, Mr. Harry Potter.” Dropsy snapped his fingers, and a plate piled high with a sumptuous sampling of breakfast goodies appeared upon the the silver platter. “A quick bite, and then you’ll need to be off. The password is ‘paisley earmuffs’.”

Dropsy set the plate on Harry’s bedside table and then disappeared with a crack, back into the bowels of the castle to do whatever it was House-Elves busied themselves doing all the livelong day. Harry sighed and decided that whatever he was about to be yelled at for, it was better to be yelled at on a full stomach.

After inhaling his breakfast and casting a hasty Freshening Charm—if McGonagall wanted him showered and primped, she ought to have sent Dropsy around noon—Harry pulled on his most comfortable t-shirt and jeans, slipped his wand into his pocket, and began to make his way groggily to the third floor. McGonagall would frown at him being out of uniform when he presented himself to her, but it was the weekend, and she was probably going to frown at him regardless, so he didn’t think it much mattered what he wore.

He muttered the password to the gargoyle guarding the staircase entrance leading up to the Headmistress’s office and plodded slowly up the winding steps. As he went, though, he thought he could hear voices—McGonagall, of course, but others as well. Was she speaking to her portraits? He hadn’t seen some of the old Headmasters’ portraits in years; Dumbledore’s he’d spotted at Christmas, but he would have liked to have paid his respects to Professor Black, and he might have even liked to see Snape’s ugly mug sneering down at him. Early mornings made him feel funny.

But when he mounted the landing and poked his head into the office proper, knocking politely on the jamb, he was disappointed to find it was _not_ her portraits to whom McGonagall had been speaking.

It was Hermione and Ron—and a third party whose identity Harry did not know but whose occupation he very much _did_: an Unspeakable. There was no mistaking those long, formless black robes and the odd Glamour all Unspeakables wore that distorted their facial features beyond recognition.

“Oh good!” Hermione sighed with relief. “You’re here!” She glanced to the clocks lining the wall behind McGonagall’s desk. “We were about to send Ron back after you.”

Ron, sat in the corner with a plate of what looked like the same breakfast Harry himself had just wolfed down, gave an enthusiastic nod, and then spoke around a mouthful, “I mithed be’fast.”

“Manners, Mr. Weasley,” McGonagall grit out. She sat straight and stiff behind her grand desk, fingers laced and lips pursed lemon-sucking tight. “We’ve a guest.” Ron ducked his head, and McGonagall fixed Harry with a cool, knowing gaze as she shifted to her feet and brushed down her robes. “Good morning, Mr. Potter.”

“Er, good mor—”

“Or perhaps I should say ‘Auror Potter’?”

Harry stiffened, glancing to Hermione in panic. “You _told_?”

Hermione’s lips pursed in a perfect imitation of McGonagall’s. “Well _you_ weren’t telling!”

“I _was_,” Harry protested. “I was _going to_.” He then looked at Ron. “You let her?”

Ron swallowed with some difficulty, patting at his lips with a napkin he’d had draped over one knee. “You think there’s any ‘letting’ when she’s on a mission, mate?”

“And a good thing Ms. Granger _did_ tell me, as I can’t imagine what’s delayed you in seeking help outside of your friends!” McGonagall gave Hermione a bland smile. “Not to disparage your efforts, Ms. Granger, but something of _this_ magnitude, manipulating the very fabric of space-time? Well I would have thought I might at least be _one_ of your first stops!”

Harry’s brows knit in confusion—she didn’t know why he’d put off coming to her? That meant Hermione hadn’t confessed to just how much mucking about with the timeline he’d done—how he’d come back to try and give Draco a chance to redeem himself and avoid the Kiss. Why wouldn’t she have told them _that_, if she’d told them everything else? He glanced to Hermione, as if expecting to see the answer written on her features, but she was carefully avoiding his gaze, chewing on a nail.

McGonagall sighed loudly, then cleared her throat. “Regardless, here we are now. Ms. Granger and Mr. Weasley have attempted to explain the situation to me, and while I admit I found the notion just the tiniest bit far-fetched initially, I’ve had discussions with Hagrid and Professor Grubbly-Plank as well as our visitor—” She extended an arm to the Unspeakable. “—Unspeakable F, from the Department of Mysteries, who have all assured me that this is, indeed, possible and in fact not without precedent.”

Harry gave a start. “Wait—F?” He stared at the Unspeakable, scrutinising the whirling, twisting features where the face was meant to be. “You’re F?”

The Unspeakable regarded him curiously—at least, he thought it might be curiously. “Hᴀᴠᴇ ᴡᴇ ʜᴀᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘʟᴇᴀsᴜʀᴇ, Aᴜʀᴏʀ Pᴏᴛᴛᴇʀ?”

The pleasure? No, Harry did not think he would’ve described their one and only interaction as anything approaching pleasurable. “…Just, I was assigned to shadow you, when I’m from. To retrieve the Ouroboros. Things…didn’t quite pan out how they were meant to. Obviously.” He wrinkled his nose. “You weren’t very nice to me.”

“Wᴇʟʟ I’ᴍ ᴀꜰʀᴀɪᴅ I ᴡᴏɴ’ᴛ ʙᴇ ᴠᴇʀʏ ɴɪᴄᴇ ᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛʜɪs ᴛɪᴍᴇ, ᴇɪᴛʜᴇʀ.” Oh yes, that was _definitely_ F underneath all that spellwork. “Yᴏᴜ ᴍᴀʏ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀ sᴇᴀᴛ.” F pointed her wand at an empty chair, which pranced over to park itself right at Harry’s feet. He took it, if only because he was still a bit wobbly on his feet first thing in the morning. Ron scooted his chair over to sit beside Harry, clapping his shoulder in moral support as he Banished his empty plate back to the Kitchens, and Hermione stood at his other side. A tendril of unease began to curl in his gut, because it felt like he was being set up to receive some rather bracing news.

“Aᴜʀᴏʀ Pᴏᴛᴛᴇʀ, I ʀᴇɢʀᴇᴛ ᴛᴏ ɪɴꜰᴏʀᴍ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪᴛ ɪs ɪᴍᴘᴏssɪʙʟᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴏ ʀᴇᴛᴜʀɴ ᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴏᴡɴ ᴛɪᴍᴇʟɪɴᴇ.”

There was a long beat of silence, and Harry supposed this meant they were waiting for his reaction. He blinked, glancing at F, then McGonagall. “…I don’t get it. You mean to say you don’t know how to send me back?”

“Iꜰ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴀs ᴡʜᴀᴛ I ʜᴀᴅ ᴍᴇᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ sᴀʏ, I ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʜᴀᴠᴇ sᴀɪᴅ ɪᴛ,” F said, a bit tartly. “Iᴛ ɪsɴ’ᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴇ _ᴅᴏɴ’ᴛ_ ᴋɴᴏᴡ—ɪᴛ’s sɪᴍᴘʟʏ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴇ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ɪᴛ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ɪᴍᴘᴏssɪʙʟᴇ. Tʜᴇʀᴇ ɪs ɴᴏᴛʜɪɴɢ _ᴛᴏ_ ᴋɴᴏᴡ.” She waved her wand, casting too quickly and quietly for Harry to follow what she’d done—though the way his ears gave a faint _pop_ and everything went impossibly quiet suggested she’d warded McGonagall’s office in some manner, to keep out any eavesdroppers. “I ᴄᴀɴɴᴏᴛ sᴘᴇᴀᴋ ᴛᴏ ʜᴏᴡ ꜰᴀʀ ᴀʟᴏɴɢ ᴍʏ ᴄᴏᴍᴘᴀᴛʀɪᴏᴛs ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʟɪɴᴇ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴡʜᴇɴᴄᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀᴍᴇ ᴀʀᴇ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ʀᴇsᴇᴀʀᴄʜ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ Oᴜʀᴏʙᴏʀᴏs, ʙᴜᴛ ᴡᴇ ɪɴ Tɪᴍᴇ—ᴛʜᴇ sᴜʙ-Dᴇᴘᴀʀᴛᴍᴇɴᴛ, ɴᴏᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀʙsᴛʀᴀᴄᴛ ᴄᴏɴᴄᴇᴘᴛ, ᴍɪɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ—ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴇɴ sᴛᴜᴅʏɪɴɢ ᴛʜɪs ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ǫᴜɪᴛᴇ ᴀ ʟᴏɴɢ ᴡʜɪʟᴇ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴡᴇ’ᴠᴇ ᴍᴀᴅᴇ ɪᴍᴘʀᴇssɪᴠᴇ ʜᴇᴀᴅᴡᴀʏ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀsᴛᴀɴᴅɪɴɢ ɪᴛs ʙɪᴏʟᴏɢʏ.”

“…You’ve already got one,” Harry marvelled. “How? You nearly got me killed trying to get your hands on Mathilda! Why would you need _another_?”

Hermione pinched his shoulder. “Just _listen_ for once.”

“Tʜᴇ Tɪᴍᴇ ʀᴇsᴇᴀʀᴄʜᴇʀs ɪɴ _ʏᴏᴜʀ_ ʟɪɴᴇ ᴅɪᴅɴ’ᴛ ɴᴇᴇᴅ ‘ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ’,” F answered anyway. “Tʜᴇʏ ᴅɪᴅɴ’ᴛ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴏɴᴇ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇɢɪɴ ᴡɪᴛʜ.”

“…I don’t get it,” Harry said. “You just said you _did_ have one.”

“_Yᴏᴜ_ sᴀɪᴅ ᴡᴇ ᴅɪᴅ, ɪꜰ ᴡᴇ’ʀᴇ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ᴘʀᴇᴄɪsᴇ.” God, Harry had forgotten what a pedant F could be. “Aɴᴅ ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ’ʟʟ ᴋɪɴᴅʟʏ ᴛᴀᴋᴇ Ms. Gʀᴀɴɢᴇʀ’s ᴀᴅᴠɪᴄᴇ ᴀɴᴅ _ʟɪsᴛᴇɴ_, ᴘᴇʀʜᴀᴘs ʏᴏᴜ’ʟʟ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀsᴛᴀɴᴅ: Tʜᴇ Oᴜʀᴏʙᴏʀᴏs ɪs ᴀɴ _ᴇxᴛʀᴇᴍᴇʟʏ_ ᴅᴀɴɢᴇʀᴏᴜs ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ. Pᴇʀʜᴀᴘs ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏsᴛ ᴅᴀɴɢᴇʀᴏᴜs ᴏɴᴇ ᴡᴇ’ᴠᴇ ᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴇɴᴄᴏᴜɴᴛᴇʀᴇᴅ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴀɢɪᴄᴀʟ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ. As ʏᴏᴜ’ᴠᴇ ʟᴇᴀʀɴᴇᴅ, ɪᴛ ᴅᴏᴇs ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴀɴɪᴘᴜʟᴀᴛᴇ ᴛɪᴍᴇ—ʙᴜᴛ ɴᴏᴛ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ sᴇɴsᴇ ʏᴏᴜ’ʀᴇ ᴛʜɪɴᴋɪɴɢ.” F twirled her wand slowly, conjuring a long stream of glowing magic that hung, like a fishing line, in the air between them. “Tʜᴇ Oᴜʀᴏʙᴏʀᴏs ᴅᴏᴇs ɴᴏᴛ ᴠɪᴇᴡ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ sᴀᴍᴇ ᴍᴀɴɴᴇʀ ᴀs ʜᴜᴍᴀɴs—ᴀ ᴍᴇʀᴇ ᴛʜʀᴇᴇ sᴘᴀᴛɪᴀʟ ᴅɪᴍᴇɴsɪᴏɴs ᴀɴᴅ ᴀ ᴛᴇᴍᴘᴏʀᴀʟ ꜰᴏᴜʀᴛʜ. Iᴛ sᴇᴇs, ɪɴsᴛᴇᴀᴅ, ᴀ ᴠᴀsᴛ ᴀʀʀᴀʏ ᴏꜰ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅs, ᴇxɪsᴛɪɴɢ ᴀʟʟ ᴀᴛ ᴏɴᴄᴇ: ᴀʟᴛᴇʀɴᴀᴛᴇ ᴛɪᴍᴇʟɪɴᴇs. Oʀ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴘʀᴇᴄɪsᴇʟʏ, ᴀʟᴛᴇʀɴᴀᴛᴇ _ʀᴇᴀʟɪᴛɪᴇs_. Iɴᴅᴇᴇᴅ, ᴇɴᴛɪʀᴇ ᴀʟᴛᴇʀɴᴀᴛᴇ ᴜɴɪᴠᴇʀsᴇs.” The thread of magic multiplied into a dozen of different lengths and vectors, some overlapping, some diverging, like a tangled web.

Harry swallowed, throat dry. “…The Manifold Worlds theory.”

He was certain F was blinking at him in shock, and when she spoke again, her garbled voice had a hitch to it. “Yᴇs, ǫᴜɪᴛᴇ ʀɪɢʜᴛ. Wʜɪʟᴇ ᴏᴜʀ ʜᴜᴍᴀɴ ᴍɪɴᴅs ᴀʀᴇ ʟɪᴍɪᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴠɪᴇᴡɪɴɢ ᴏɴʟʏ ᴛʜᴇ ʟɪɴᴇ—ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇᴀʟɪᴛʏ—ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴡʜɪᴄʜ ᴡᴇ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ʙᴏʀɴ, ᴛʜᴇ Oᴜʀᴏʙᴏʀᴏs ᴄᴀɴ sᴇᴇ ᴀʟʟ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ᴜɴꜰᴏʟᴅɪɴɢ ᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ sᴀᴍᴇ ᴛɪᴍᴇ.” She gestured to the lines of magic whipping around them, then lowered her wand, and they all winked out. “Iɴ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴡᴏʀᴅs, ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜɪs ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ, ᴛɪᴍᴇ ɪs ʜᴀᴘᴘᴇɴɪɴɢ _ᴀʟʟ ᴀᴛ ᴏɴᴄᴇ_. Iꜰ ᴏɴᴇ ɪs ᴜɴʟᴜᴄᴋʏ—ᴏʀ ᴇʟsᴇ ᴜɴᴡɪsᴇ—ᴇɴᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛᴏ ɢᴇᴛ ᴛʜᴇᴍsᴇʟᴠᴇs ʙɪᴛᴛᴇɴ ʙʏ ᴏɴᴇ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴠᴇɴᴏᴍ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ Oᴜʀᴏʙᴏʀᴏs ᴡɪʟʟ ᴇxᴛʀᴀᴄᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏɴsᴄɪᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴠɪᴄᴛɪᴍ ᴀɴᴅ ɪɴᴊᴇᴄᴛ ɪᴛ ɴᴏᴛ sɪᴍᴘʟʏ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴀɴ ᴀʟᴛᴇʀɴᴀᴛᴇ _ᴛɪᴍᴇ_ ʙᴜᴛ ᴀɴ ᴀʟᴛᴇʀɴᴀᴛᴇ _sᴘᴀᴄᴇ_. Aɴ ᴀʟᴛᴇʀɴᴀᴛᴇ ʀᴇᴀʟɪᴛʏ. Oɴᴇ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ, ꜰᴏʀ ᴇxᴀᴍᴘʟᴇ, ᴄɪʀᴄᴜᴍsᴛᴀɴᴄᴇs ᴍɪɢʜᴛ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʟᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴀɴ Oᴜʀᴏʙᴏʀᴏs sᴘᴇᴄɪᴍᴇɴ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ᴘʀᴏᴄᴜʀᴇᴅ ʏᴇᴀʀs ᴇᴀʀʟɪᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀɴ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴠɪᴄᴛɪᴍ’s ᴏʀɪɢɪɴᴀʟ ʀᴇᴀʟɪᴛʏ.” She slipped her wand back into her robes. “Oɴᴇ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇᴠᴇɴᴛs ᴘᴇʀᴘᴇᴛʀᴀᴛᴇᴅ ʙʏ ᴛʜᴇ ɪɴᴛᴇʀʟᴏᴘᴇʀ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʙᴇᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʟɪɴᴇ’s ‘ᴘʀᴇsᴇɴᴛ’, ᴀɴᴅ ᴇᴠᴇɴᴛᴜᴀʟʟʏ ɪᴛs ꜰᴜᴛᴜʀᴇ. A ꜰᴜᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴇɴᴛɪʀᴇʟʏ sᴇᴘᴀʀᴀᴛᴇ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ‘ꜰᴜᴛᴜʀᴇ’ ᴛʜɪs ɪɴᴛᴇʀʟᴏᴘᴇʀ ʜᴀɪʟᴇᴅ ꜰʀᴏᴍ. Iᴛ ɪs _ᴛʜɪs_ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴍᴀᴋᴇs ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ꜰᴀʀ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴅᴀɴɢᴇʀᴏᴜs ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴀ sɪᴍᴘʟᴇ Tɪᴍᴇ Tᴜʀɴᴇʀ, ᴀs ɪɴ ᴇssᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴀɴ ᴇɴᴛɪʀᴇʟʏ ɴᴇᴡ ᴛɪᴍᴇʟɪɴᴇ—ɪɴ ᴀɴ ᴇɴᴛɪʀᴇʟʏ ᴅɪꜰꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴛ ᴜɴɪᴠᴇʀsᴇ—ɪs ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛᴇᴅ.”

All the talk of realities and universes and timelines was starting to make Harry’s head hurt, and he latched onto the only familiar element: “Wait, a Time Turner. I don’t get it, how is this any different from what a Time Turner does?”

“Dɪᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ɴᴏᴛ _ᴊᴜsᴛ_ ʜᴇᴀʀ ᴍᴇ—” F sighed, cocking her head to glance at Hermione, who only shrugged as if to say _Sorry he’s so thick_. “Tɪᴍᴇ Tᴜʀɴᴇʀs ᴄᴀɴ ᴏɴʟʏ ᴏᴘᴇʀᴀᴛᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜɪɴ ᴀ sɪɴɢʟᴇ ʀᴇᴀʟɪᴛʏ—ᴀ sɪɴɢʟᴇ ᴜɴɪᴠᴇʀsᴇ. Tʜᴇʏ ᴀʀᴇ ᴀ ꜰᴀɴᴛᴀsᴛɪᴄ ᴍᴀɢɪᴄᴀʟ ꜰᴇᴀᴛ, ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴄᴀɴ ʙᴇ ɴᴏ ᴅᴏᴜʙᴛ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴘᴀʟᴇ ɪɴ ᴄᴏᴍᴘᴀʀɪsᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀʙɪʟɪᴛɪᴇs ᴏꜰ ᴛʜɪs ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ. Fᴏʀ ᴏɴᴇ ᴛʜɪɴɢ, ᴛʜᴇʏ’ʀᴇ ᴍɪsʟᴇᴀᴅɪɴɢ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ɴᴀᴍᴇ: ᴀ Tɪᴍᴇ Tᴜʀɴᴇʀ ᴅᴏᴇs ɴᴏᴛ ᴀʟʟᴏᴡ ᴏɴᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴛᴜʀɴ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ _ᴄʜᴀɴɢᴇ_ ɪᴛ, ᴏɴʟʏ ᴛᴏ ʀᴇᴘʟᴀʏ ɪᴛ. Oᴜʀ ᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴs ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴀsᴛ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀʟʀᴇᴀᴅʏ ʜᴀᴘᴘᴇɴᴇᴅ ᴀs ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴅɪᴅ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴄᴀɴɴᴏᴛ ʙᴇ ᴄʜᴀɴɢᴇᴅ—ᴇʟsᴇ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ɴᴏᴛ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʜᴀᴘᴘᴇɴᴇᴅ ᴀs ᴡᴇ ʀᴇᴄᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘʀᴇsᴇɴᴛ. Aɴʏ ᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴs ʏᴏᴜ ᴍᴀʏ ʙᴇʟɪᴇᴠᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴏᴏᴋ ᴛᴏ ᴀʟᴛᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴜᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ᴜsɪɴɢ ᴀ Tɪᴍᴇ Tᴜʀɴᴇʀ ᴀʀᴇ, ɪɴ ꜰᴀᴄᴛ, sɪᴍᴘʟʏ ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴀʙʀɪᴄ ᴏꜰ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ɪᴛsᴇʟꜰ. Fᴀᴛᴇ, ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡɪʟʟ—ᴏᴜᴛᴄᴏᴍᴇs ꜰᴏʀᴇᴛᴏʟᴅ, sᴜᴄʜ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ᴛʜᴇʏ sᴇᴇᴍ ᴛᴏ ʙʀɪɴɢ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴀ ᴄᴇʀᴛᴀɪɴ ꜰᴜᴛᴜʀᴇ, ɪɴ ꜰᴀᴄᴛ ᴛʜᴇʏ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ɴᴏ ᴄᴏɴsᴇǫᴜᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ꜰᴜᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴀᴛ ᴀʟʟ.”

His headache was starting to sharpen now, and Hermione helped matters none when she interjected, “I did read, though, in the June ‘98 edition of _The Timely Times_, that there are ways a Time Turner might be manipulated to generate an offshoot, branch timeline whose future _could_ be altered from the Time Turner’s target point.”

“Yᴇs, ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇᴏʀʏ—ᴀɴᴅ R ᴡɪʟʟ ʙᴇ ᴅᴇʟɪɢʜᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʟᴇᴀʀɴ ʏᴏᴜ’ᴠᴇ ʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ᴀʀᴛɪᴄʟᴇ. Bᴜᴛ ʙᴇsɪᴅᴇs ʙᴇɪɴɢ _ʜɪɢʜʟʏ_ ɪʟʟᴇɢᴀʟ, ᴛʜᴇ sᴘᴇʟʟᴡᴏʀᴋ ʀᴇǫᴜɪʀᴇᴅ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ—”

McGonagall cleared her throat loudly, and Harry felt Ron listing drowsily next to him. “While I appreciate your enthusiasm on the matter, Unspeakable F, perhaps we could get back to the matter at hand?”

Hermione seemed to wilt, almost pouting, and Harry found himself silently agreeing with Draco that she really should have considered becoming an Unspeakable. How would that have worked with Ron, though? Were all Unspeakables single? Or did they just not tell their partners about their work? Did they have covers? Holy balls, Hermione might _actually_ be an Unspeakable, with her position as the Undersecretary only be a ruse. First the slow, horrifying realisation he wasn’t half the Auror he was cracked up to be, and now _this_? His whole world was falling apart.

“Auror Potter, are you all right?” McGonagall said, frowning. “You look like you’re about be sick…”

“I’m—fine, Professor. Headmistress.” He managed a tight smile that McGonagall did not believe, but she let him have his internal breakdown as he pleased. Dropsy’s breakfast was sitting queasy in his stomach now, and all he really wanted to do was head back to Gryffindor Tower to catch up on the sleep he was currently being deprived. “Listen, guys, I’m sure all this…alternate universe, parallel reality stuff is really fascinating to some, but I’m mostly interested in what it’s got to do with my supposedly not being able to go back to my proper time?” He glanced between Hermione and F, hoping one or both might clarify. “I mean, I came here once—why can’t I just _go back_? It’s not the same timeline, Manifold Worlds and whatnot, I get that, but can’t we just…I dunno, reverse the Ouroboros’s magic to send me back where I came from?”

“Oʜ, ǫᴜɪᴛᴇ ᴇᴀsɪʟʏ.”

Hermione boggled. “_Really_?”

“Oꜰ ᴄᴏᴜʀsᴇ ɴᴏᴛ. Mʏ ᴀᴘᴏʟᴏɢɪᴇs, I ꜰᴏʀɢᴇᴛ sᴏᴍᴇᴛɪᴍᴇs ᴛʜᴀᴛ sᴀʀᴄᴀsᴍ ᴅᴏᴇsɴ’ᴛ ᴛʀᴀɴsʟᴀᴛᴇ ᴡᴇʟʟ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛʜᴇ Vᴏᴄᴀʟ Mᴏᴅᴜʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴ Cʜᴀʀᴍ.” F bobbed her head a bit in a half-shrug. “Aʟᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪsɴ’ᴛ ᴛᴏ sᴜɢɢᴇsᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ, ᴡɪᴛʜ sᴜꜰꜰɪᴄɪᴇɴᴛ ꜰᴜɴᴅɪɴɢ ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴇsᴇᴀʀᴄʜ, ᴡᴇ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅɴ’ᴛ ᴍᴀɴᴀɢᴇ ᴛᴏ ʀᴇᴘʟɪᴄᴀᴛᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴀɢɪᴄ—ᴀɴᴅ ᴘᴇʀʜᴀᴘs ᴅᴇᴠᴇʟᴏᴘ ᴀ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛᴇʀ.”

“Well—see? Then that doesn’t mean it’s impossible.”

“Oʜ ɴᴏ, I’ᴍ ᴀꜰʀᴀɪᴅ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ɪs sᴛɪʟʟ _ǫᴜɪᴛᴇ_ ɪᴍᴘᴏssɪʙʟᴇ. Tʜᴇʀᴇ’s sᴇɴᴅɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴄᴏɴsᴄɪᴏᴜsɴᴇss—ʏᴏᴜʀ sᴏᴜʟ, sᴏᴍᴇ ᴍɪɢʜᴛ ᴄᴀʟʟ ɪᴛ—ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ʟɪɴᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴡʜɪᴄʜ ɪᴛ ʙᴇʟᴏɴɢs…ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ’s sᴇɴᴅɪɴɢ ɪᴛ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴏʟᴅ ʙᴏᴅʏ. Oɴᴇ ɪs ᴛʜᴇᴏʀᴇᴛɪᴄᴀʟʟʏ ꜰᴇᴀsɪʙʟᴇ. Tʜᴇ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ, ᴠᴇʀʏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ɴᴏᴛ.”

Harry’s stomach bottomed out. “Wh…what do you mean by that?” Were the two concepts not the same? When had _souls_ entered the equation? He’d messed about with soul magic before, and he was not keen to do so again.

“Tʜᴇ Oᴜʀᴏʙᴏʀᴏs ɪs, ᴀᴛ ɪᴛs ᴍᴏsᴛ ʙᴀsɪᴄ, ᴀ ᴠᴇɴᴏᴍᴏᴜs sɴᴀᴋᴇ. Nᴏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴍᴏʀᴇ. Iᴛ ɪs ɴᴏᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ɪᴛsᴇʟꜰ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪs ᴍᴀɢɪᴄᴀʟ sᴏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ᴀs ɪᴛs ᴠᴇɴᴏᴍ.”

Harry frowned—there wasn’t much he recalled about his brief run-in with Doyle, but Hermione had made him document all he could remember fairly early on. “But—Doyle, the bloke who was trying to fence the Ouroboros to F and me, he said the snake had to _bite_ someone. That the venom couldn’t simply be injected.”

“Oʜ ᴛʜᴀᴛ’s ᴏɴʟʏ ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜsᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴠᴏʟᴀᴛɪʟᴇ ɴᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴏxɪɴ. Sᴛᴜᴅɪᴇs ʜᴀᴠᴇ sʜᴏᴡɴ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴀ ᴅᴇ-ɢʟᴀɴᴅᴇᴅ Oᴜʀᴏʙᴏʀᴏs ɪs ɴᴏ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴅᴇᴀᴅʟʏ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴀ ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴏɴ ɢᴀʀᴅᴇɴ sɴᴀᴋᴇ.”

Hermione gave a start. “_Studies_? What sorts of studies? You’ve let your specimen _bite_ people?” 

But F ignored her this time. “Tʜᴇ ᴠᴇɴᴏᴍ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ Oᴜʀᴏʙᴏʀᴏs ᴡᴏʀᴋs ʙʏ ᴇxᴛʀᴀᴄᴛɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏɴsᴄɪᴏᴜsɴᴇss—ᴀs I sᴀɪᴅ, ᴛʜᴇ sᴏᴜʟ—ᴏꜰ ɪᴛs ᴠɪᴄᴛɪᴍ, sᴇᴠᴇʀɪɴɢ ɪᴛs ᴄᴏɴɴᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ɪᴛs ᴄᴏʀᴘᴏʀᴇᴀʟ ꜰᴏʀᴍ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴᴇ ʟɪɴᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇɴ ᴏᴠᴇʀʟᴀʏɪɴɢ ɪᴛ ᴏɴᴛᴏ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴏꜰ sᴜɪᴛᴀʙʟᴇ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ. Tʜᴇ ᴠɪᴄᴛɪᴍ ᴄᴀɴ, ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ꜰɪɴᴀʟ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛs, ɢᴜɪᴅᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴇsᴛɪɴᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ sᴏᴜʟ ᴛᴏ sᴏᴍᴇ ᴅᴇɢʀᴇᴇ—ᴀᴍ I ᴄᴏʀʀᴇᴄᴛ ɪɴ ᴀssᴜᴍɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴀᴛ’s ʜᴏᴡ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴜᴘ ʜᴇʀᴇ?”

“Er, yeah,” Harry said, declining to elaborate any further. F was making it sound like he’d been _killed_.

“Tʜɪs ᴘʀᴏᴄᴇss ᴇssᴇɴᴛɪᴀʟʟʏ ᴇɴᴅs ᴛʜᴇ ᴠɪᴄᴛɪᴍ’s ᴇxɪsᴛᴇɴᴄᴇ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ sᴏᴜʀᴄᴇ ʟɪɴᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ɪɴᴊᴇᴄᴛs ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʀᴇᴍᴀɪɴs—ᴛʜᴇ sᴏᴜʟ—ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ sᴀᴍᴇ ʙᴏᴅʏ ɪɴ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ.” Oh. “Tʜɪɴᴋ ᴏꜰ ɪᴛ ʟɪᴋᴇ…ᴡᴇʟʟ, ʟɪᴋᴇ ʀᴇᴄᴇɪᴠɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ Dᴇᴍᴇɴᴛᴏʀ’s Kɪss.” Harry jolted at the comparison, and he could feel his heart starting to pound against his ribcage, the blood pumping in his ears. “Tʜᴇ ʙᴏᴅʏ ᴄᴀɴɴᴏᴛ sᴜʀᴠɪᴠᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ ʟɪꜰᴇ ᴀɴɪᴍᴀᴛɪɴɢ ɪᴛ. Iɴ ᴛʜᴇ ɪɴsᴛᴀɴᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ʙɪᴛᴛᴇɴ ʙʏ ᴛʜᴇ Oᴜʀᴏʙᴏʀᴏs ɪɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʟɪɴᴇ, ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴘʜʏsɪᴄᴀʟ ʙᴏᴅʏ ᴡᴀs ʀᴜɪɴᴇᴅ. Tʜᴇʀᴇ ɪs ɴᴏᴛʜɪɴɢ ꜰᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴏ ʀᴇᴛᴜʀɴ _ᴛᴏ_. Iᴛ ɪs, ᴀs I sᴀɪᴅ, ɪᴍᴘᴏssɪʙʟᴇ.”

“Holy shit…” Harry swallowed thickly. “You’re telling me that I’ve…” He tried to put the pieces together without looking too closely at the picture they made. “I’ve…killed Harry Potter? I’ve _killed myself_?”

“Tᴡɪᴄᴇ ᴏᴠᴇʀ, ɪɴ ꜰᴀᴄᴛ.”

“_Twice_?!” It was for the best F had laid down whatever spells she had to give them privacy, else they probably could’ve heard him shriek down in the Dungeons.

“Oɴᴄᴇ ɪɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴏʀɪɢɪɴᴀʟ ʟɪɴᴇ, ᴡʜᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ sᴏᴜʟ ᴡᴀs sᴇᴠᴇʀᴇᴅ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʙᴏᴅʏ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴏɴᴄᴇ ʜᴇʀᴇ, ᴡʜᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴄᴏɴsᴄɪᴏᴜsɴᴇss ʀᴇᴄʟᴀɪᴍᴇᴅ ɪᴛs ꜰᴏʀᴍ ᴀɴᴅ ᴏᴠᴇʀᴡʀᴏᴛᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴏᴅʏ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴡʜɪᴄʜ ʏᴏᴜ’ᴅ ʙᴇᴇɴ ɪɴᴊᴇᴄᴛᴇᴅ.”

“Wait—” Ron started, suddenly interested. “_Overwrote his body_? You mean—this Harry, the Harry from the future…_replaced_ our Harry?”

F nodded, and Harry thought it was a good thing he was sitting down, or he might have fainted dead away. He’d made a fucking Horcrux was what he’d done. Of _himself_. Inadvertently, sure. But he’d still split his soul from his body, committing an atrocity in the doing, and attached it to another. God, he was a fucking _Dark Lord _now. It cast Draco’s wanting anything to do with him in an entirely new light.

The queasiness from before redoubled, and Harry really, honestly thought he might vomit. He’d essentially been Kissed…and then _killed himself_. In the span of a heartbeat. And though he felt, aside from his stomach troubles, perfectly all right, the fact of the matter was that this wasn’t his body, _really_ wasn’t his body. He was trapped in an eighteen-year-old shell and he couldn’t get back. 

Oh fuck. He _couldn’t get back_. 

“I just…I just thought I’d gone to the past—to _my_ past…” Harry mumbled weakly, lost. “Everything was the same, so many things… I mean, there were little things that were different, but only little things, and I thought maybe I was just misremembering, or I’d changed them on accident…”

“Aɴᴅ ɪɴᴅᴇᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴀʀᴇ ᴘʀᴏʙᴀʙʟʏ ᴀ ɢʀᴇᴀᴛ ᴍᴀɴʏ ᴇᴠᴇɴᴛs ɪɴ ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴏɴ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ᴛʜɪs ʀᴇᴀʟɪᴛʏ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴᴇ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴡʜᴇɴᴄᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴏᴍᴇ. Nᴏᴛ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ᴄʜᴏɪᴄᴇ ᴡᴇ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ʜᴀs sᴏᴍᴇ ɢʀᴀɴᴅ ᴄᴏɴsᴇǫᴜᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴜᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴀs ᴀ ᴡʜᴏʟᴇ.”

Harry wasn’t really listening anymore—he was thinking, mostly. About Draco. Thinking and wondering if maybe Draco hadn’t been right all along. Had all this, these months of effort, been for nothing? Maybe in this line, Draco had never been meant to suffer the Kiss at all. Maybe he’d been meant to pick himself up and dust off his knees after graduation and do something worthwhile with his life, all on his own. 

Maybe all of Harry’s meddling had been just that: meddling. Fucking up Draco’s life for no reason, other than Harry’s own peace of mind.

Shit. _Shit_. That meant there was another world out there—his own—still spinning on without him. A world where Draco Malfoy had still gone to the Kissing Chamber, still been shackled before a Dementor, still had his soul devoured, cold and terrified and alone. A world where Draco Malfoy was, and ever would be, _dead_.

In the end, Harry hadn’t managed to save Draco at all. He’d just gotten himself offed in the attempt.

“Harry?” Hermione shook him gently, leaning down to peer into his eyes. “Were you listening?”

“I—sorry, what?” Hermione pointed to F, who had apparently been speaking to him. 

“As I ᴡᴀs sᴀʏɪɴɢ, I ꜰᴇᴇʟ ɪᴛ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʙᴇ ʙᴇsᴛ ɪꜰ Aᴜʀᴏʀ Pᴏᴛᴛᴇʀ ᴀᴄᴄᴏᴍᴘᴀɴɪᴇᴅ ᴍᴇ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ Mɪɴɪsᴛʀʏ sᴏ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴍʏ ᴄᴏʟʟᴇᴀɢᴜᴇs ᴍɪɢʜᴛ sᴘᴇᴀᴋ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʜɪᴍ. Tʜᴇʏ’ʟʟ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ʜɪs sᴛᴀᴛᴇᴍᴇɴᴛ, ᴘᴇʀʜᴀᴘs ᴄᴀᴛᴀʟᴏɢᴜᴇ ᴀɴʏ ᴇᴠᴇɴᴛs ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴛʀᴀɴsᴘɪʀᴇᴅ ɪɴ ʜɪs ᴏᴡɴ ʀᴇᴀʟɪᴛʏ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴇ ᴍɪɢʜᴛ ᴄᴏᴍᴘᴀʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʜᴀᴘᴘᴇɴɪɴɢs ɪɴ ᴏᴜʀ ᴏᴡɴ. Tʜɪs ʀᴇᴀʟʟʏ ɪs ᴀ ʀᴀʀᴇ ᴏᴘᴘᴏʀᴛᴜɴɪᴛʏ, ᴀɴᴅ ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ’ʀᴇ ᴀᴍᴇɴᴀʙʟᴇ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇʟᴘɪɴɢ, ᴡᴇ’ʟʟ ʙᴇ ᴀʙʟᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ sᴜʙsᴛᴀɴᴛɪᴀʟ ʜᴇᴀᴅᴡᴀʏ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴏᴜʀ ʀᴇsᴇᴀʀᴄʜ ᴅᴏᴡɴ ɪɴ Tɪᴍᴇ. I’ᴍ sᴜʀᴇ ᴀɴʏ ɴᴜᴍʙᴇʀ ᴏꜰ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ Dᴇᴘᴀʀᴛᴍᴇɴᴛs ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴀʟsᴏ ᴀᴘᴘʀᴇᴄɪᴀᴛᴇ ᴀɴʏ ꜰᴏʀᴇᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ ᴍɪɢʜᴛ ʙᴇ ᴀʙʟᴇ ᴛᴏ ɢɪᴠᴇ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ᴄᴏɴᴄᴇʀɴɪɴɢ ᴇᴠᴇɴᴛs ᴏꜰ ɪᴍᴘᴏʀᴛ ꜰᴀᴄɪɴɢ Wɪᴢᴀʀᴅɪɴɢ Bʀɪᴛᴀɪɴ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴍɪɴɢ ʏᴇᴀʀs.”

He didn’t need to be looking at Hermione; he could _hear_ the frown in her voice. “But—pardon me, Unspeakable F, but is that really wise? I mean, it’s one thing to make note of events that have already transpired, for research purposes, but learning about the future…”

“_Pᴏᴛᴇɴᴛɪᴀʟ_ ꜰᴜᴛᴜʀᴇ, Ms. Gʀᴀɴɢᴇʀ. Tʜᴇʀᴇ’s ɴᴏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ sᴀʏ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ, ɢᴏᴏᴅ ᴏʀ ʙᴀᴅ, ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʜᴀs ʜᴀᴘᴘᴇɴᴇᴅ ɪɴ Aᴜʀᴏʀ Pᴏᴛᴛᴇʀ’s ʜᴏᴍᴇ ʀᴇᴀʟɪᴛʏ ᴡɪʟʟ ʜᴀᴘᴘᴇɴ ɪɴ ᴛʜɪs ᴏɴᴇ ᴀs ᴡᴇʟʟ—ʙᴜᴛ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ʜᴇ sʜᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴄʜᴏᴏsᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴅɪᴠᴜʟɢᴇ ᴡɪʟʟ ʙᴇ ᴋᴇᴘᴛ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ sᴛʀɪᴄᴛᴇsᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴄᴏɴꜰɪᴅᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴅɪsᴄᴜssᴇᴅ ɪɴ ᴅᴇᴘᴛʜ ᴀᴍᴏɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ɢʀᴇᴀᴛᴇsᴛ ᴍɪɴᴅs ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴀɢɪᴄᴀʟ ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴜɴɪᴛʏ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ᴀɴʏ ᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ɪs ᴛᴀᴋᴇɴ.”

Harry doubted this would satisfy Hermione, and truthfully, it didn’t really satisfy him either. It was looking like he was going to wind up the Ministry’s science experiment one way or another, and he was so far beyond caring about contributing to their ‘research’ at this point it wasn’t even funny. 

Stuck. He was _stuck_. And while a part of him hadn’t wanted to leave at all, most of him had been…well resignedto it. Had been looking forward to getting back, if only to see what ripple effects might be born of the changes he’d made here in the past. He hadn’t thought any of this was _permanent_, at least no more permanent than a memory, and now…now it was. His new normal. To whatever extent his life had ever been normal.

McGonagall cleared her throat softly. “…Unspeakable F, perhaps we could give Pott—Auror Potter the weekend to sort through his thoughts? This must be quite a shock, and if he’s been here for six months already, then surely your colleagues can delay any questions they may have or studies they hope to conduct for a few more days?”

F bowed her head politely. “Oꜰ ᴄᴏᴜʀsᴇ. I sʜᴀʟʟ ʀᴇᴛᴜʀɴ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ Mɪɴɪsᴛʀʏ ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴇʟᴀʏ ᴍʏ ꜰɪɴᴅɪɴɢs ᴛᴏ ᴍʏ sᴜᴘᴇʀɪᴏʀs. Wᴇ’ʟʟ sᴇɴᴅ ᴀɴ ᴏᴡʟ ʟᴀᴛᴇʀ ɴᴇxᴛ ᴡᴇᴇᴋ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴅᴇᴛᴀɪʟs ᴏɴ ʜᴏᴡ ᴡᴇ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ ᴡɪᴛʜ Aᴜʀᴏʀ Pᴏᴛᴛᴇʀ ɢᴏɪɴɢ ꜰᴏʀᴡᴀʀᴅ, sᴏ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴇ ᴄᴀɴ ᴀʀʀᴀɴɢᴇ ᴀ sᴄʜᴇᴅᴜʟᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴠɪᴇᴡs ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ʟɪᴋᴇ.”

“Yes, yes,” McGonagall said dismissively, then looked to Hermione. “Ms. Granger, Mr. Weasley—if you could escort Auror Potter back to Gryffindor Tower for the time being? We’ll speak more later, but I think for now it’s best he have the day to take this all in.”

“Of course, Professor,” Hermione said, moving her steady grip from Harry’s shoulder to just under his elbow. With Ron on his other side, the two of them helped Harry to his feet. A good thing, too, as he felt like he’d been hit with a Jelly-Legs Jinx and wasn’t certain he could stand on his own without promptly face-planting.

They quickly and quietly bore him away, down the winding stairs of the Headmistress’s Tower and back out into the Third-floor Corridor. Harry let himself be carried along mutely, his thoughts distant, and it wasn’t until they’d reached the Fat Lady’s Portrait and practically Levitated him into the Common Room that he finally found his voice.

“…I’m sorry,” he said, though the words sounded so weak. Insubstantial. Utterly unequal to the remorse he was feeling right about now.

“What on earth for?” Hermione asked. “Ron—would you check we’ve got some privacy? I’ll get him comfortable over by the couch.”

Ron slipped away, perhaps to throw up a few _Muffliato_s, perhaps to menace younger students into finding elsewhere to congregate for the morning, while Hermione shuttled him over to the collection of couches and armchairs next to the darkened fireplace.

“…Well, I killed your best friend.”

Hermione gave a sharp intake of breath, but Ron returned to reassure her, “No sweat, I put up the charm—he can confess to as many murders as he likes now, we shouldn’t be overheard.”

“Oh _Harry_,” Hermione said, rushing to sit beside him. He had his elbows settled on his thighs, back hunched, and she laid a hand along the curve of his spine, rubbing up and down. “You haven’t _killed_ anyone.”

“Were you not listening in there? I have. Two people. A murder-suicide, if we’re being pedantic.”

“And we’re nothing if not pedantic,” Ron said, taking the cushion to Harry’s other side with a loud sigh. “Don’t be daft, mate. You haven’t—”

“I _have_,” Harry said, insistent, because he didn’t want to be coddled right now. He’d accepted their help getting back to Gryffindor Tower, because he’d been out of sorts and probably would’ve just found a nice patch of wall to slide down against and sat there on the cold flagstones until his world stopped spinning. But he was rallying now, and he _didn’t want to be coddled_. “I have. I’m not Harry—not _your_ Harry. I don’t have his memories, may not even have his personality and preferences—”

Ron snorted. “_That’s_ for damn sure. I mean—” He gave Harry a sidelong glance. “_Malfoy_? When you’ve got Charlie right there, fit as anything and could make you a lawful Weasley as easily as Ginny could’ve? _Definitely_ suspect.”

Harry frowned, pinch-lipped. “I’m serious.”

“And what makes you think we aren’t as well?” Hermione said softly. She left off stroking his back like a child, and folded her hands in her lap. “You didn’t come here because you wanted to—”

“I _did_, and you know it.”

“You didn’t know the consequences, though. It was an accident—a freak, terrible accident of magic none of us understood. Not even your Ministry.”

“Evidently _your_ Ministry understands it, though…” Harry muttered.

“The point is,” she continued, taking his shoulder and giving him a little shake. “You’re _absolutely_ our Harry. Really you are. You’re Harry in _every_ reality, and even if you’ve been…_misplaced_, well that doesn’t make you any less Harry Potter. Our very good friend.”

“_Best_ friend,” Ron corrected. “And I dunno about you, but jumping headfirst through time and space to save the life of someone who, let’s face facts, really doesn’t deserve it? That’s about as Harry Potter a move as I’ve ever heard.”

Harry appreciated what they were trying to do, really he did, but the fact remained: “…You’ll never see him again, though. He…he probably had dreams and hopes and ideas for how he wanted his future to go. Fuck—” He ran a hand through his hair. “What if he _hadn’t_ broken up with Ginny? What if they’d just decided to, I dunno, take a sabbatical? He might’ve wanted to—” Harry shifted around so Ron had to look him in the eye. “Don’t you—don’t you _miss him_?”

And Ron’s jaw went tight. He cleared his throat, blinking as he shunted his gaze off to the side. “What kind of a question is that? ‘Course I miss him.”

“Well you’re talking to me like one Harry’s as good as another!” He wanted them to be angry with him. He wanted them to have stormed out of McGonagall’s office, to be silently fuming and refusing to have anything to do with him. He wanted them to hate him for taking their best friend from them, because that was how you were _supposed_ to feel.

You weren’t supposed to be just a little bit relieved. You weren’t supposed to feel like…things had worked out maybe for the best.

You just weren’t.

“…Do you miss your Ron and Hermione?” Hermione asked, gentle and careful. “You’ve lost someone important today as well. People we’re nothing more than poor replacements for.”

“That’s not—”

“We don’t have their memories. Probably don’t have their exact personalities or preferences—we aren’t them, and we never will be. And you’ll never see them again. So don’t you miss them?”

“Of course,” Harry said, defensive, and it was the truth. Of _course_ he missed them—his Ron and Hermione. A sharp pang lodged deep in his chest, and it suddenly hurt to breathe. He was never going to see them again. He was never going to have his twenty-fifth birthday lunch at The Burrow—Mrs. Weasley had sent out invitations a month earlier, and now her Harry was dead. He couldn’t even tell her he was sorry. That he’d been looking forward to it. That he’d wanted the roast beef and potatoes with glazed carrots and treacle tart ice cream. _God_, he’d lost _everyone_. 

Except he hadn’t. The only reason he wasn’t having an actual breakdown now, only a minor mental snap, was because…well, Ron and Hermione were right here, beside him, talking to him and touching him and comforting him, and of course they weren’t exactly the same, but…but they were still Ron and Hermione. He still loved them. 

And they still loved him.

“I don’t…” he started, then cleared his throat when his voice caught. “I don’t want to tell anyone else. About—this. I think it might get…complicated.” The Ministry wouldn’t want him to go blabbing anyway—if for no other reason than because the magic of the Ouroboros could not be allowed to fall into the clutches of unsavoury sorts. Would the Neo-Death Eaters rise here, just as they’d done in his own line? He supposed this would be just one of the many matters he’d need to discuss with F and her team in the near future. 

Hermione nodded, and Ron said, “Of course, mate. You freaked people out enough coming back from the dead; I dunno that they could handle finding out you achieved inter-dimensional time travel as well.”

And despite himself, Harry smiled. Laughed a little, even—a soft, dry chuckle that made the sharp pang in his chest abate just a little bit. 

Because it wasn’t sadness he was feeling. He wasn’t sad, or angry. It was…something more like regret. An odd, distant mourning for everything he’d left behind and the understanding that people he loved, people he cared about, would miss him, might never understand what had happened to him. They’d think he’d died and not realise he was here—_still here_—just…away. Living. Still alive.

He was here, this was _his line_ now, even if it hadn’t been initially. He’d come here because he’d wanted to, and while he wasn’t _staying_ because he’d wanted to…it was almost a relief, actually: Not having to disappoint someone, one way or the other. Not having to choose. He’d hated not being given a choice in his youth, having decisions made without him, being deprived of any manner of agency, but well, maybe he’d matured. Or maybe he’d finally realised that making decisions yourself meant living with the consequences. 

He was going to live with the consequences of the _last_ decision he’d made for himself for the rest of his life now. Perhaps he ought to let fate take the reins for a bit.

He didn’t leave Gryffindor Tower the rest of the day. After convincing Hermione and Ron he wasn’t going to do anything rash, he slept the morning away and the better portion of the afternoon, only rousing just at dinner because Dropsy’s breakfast had finally passed through his system. His friends and classmates conversed brightly around him, their animated interactions somehow distant and obscured by the realisation he was very much apart from them despite being sat right in the middle of their company. It was a strange feeling—different, somehow, from just being older than the others. He was an interloper, F had said: a refugee from a distant world. And only three people in the whole of the universe knew the entirety of what had brought him so far from home.

And one of them wasn’t speaking to him any longer. That just wouldn’t do, if he was going to be stuck here for the rest of his now-seven-years-longer life.

He waited until curfew had been called and his dormmates were asleep before pulling on his Invisibility Cloak and slipping unnoticed down to the Common Room and out the portrait. He had the Marauder’s Map tucked safely in the Mokeskin pouch Hagrid had gifted him for his seventeenth, but he kept it stowed, not bothering to check Draco’s location. He would be where he always was when they rowed: in the Room of Requirement, waiting for Harry to drum up the nerve to come back and apologise (even when Harry wasn’t the one at fault, which was _far_ more often than Draco wanted to admit). 

The door opened for him as it always had—either Draco had left it unguarded, or he’d yet to manage to word his requests for privacy in a way that would keep time-hopping Aurors with saviour complexes from barging in on him. The lamps were lit low, and Draco had asked the Room to fashion a fireplace before which he could sit, evidently for no other reason than because it suited the mood, as it was certainly no longer cool enough the warmth retained by the castle during the day was insufficient to ward off the chill of night.

Harry approached, slow and careful, and realised once he drew within the pool of dancing light thrown by the Conjured fire that the chair in which Draco sat was, in fact, Harry’s own armchair, the gold ticking picking up the flickering firelight.

Draco gave no sign he’d noticed Harry’s presence—but Harry wasn’t stupid. Draco knew he was there, and if he wasn’t speaking to Harry, it was because he didn’t want to. Or else was trying his hand at non-vocal spells. While Harry wanted to take it as a good sign Draco wasn’t throwing things at him or snarling at him to fuck off, sometimes a quiet Draco was the most dangerous one.

He took a breath. “…It’s after curfew, you know.”

There came a soft _whap_, and then Draco set aside the book he’d evidently been reading, reaching for a glass half-full of a brown concoction whose proof Harry could only guess at. “Going to arrest me, then? You aren’t an Auror _here_, you know.” Draco took a long draw of his tumbler. “Fuck off back to the future if you’re missing the thrill of a good power trip.” Ah, and now the snarls to fuck off were making an appearance.

His words were weak, though. Blunted. As if he was speaking rote from a script. Saying what Harry expected him to say in a desperate bid to drive Harry away again. A defensive reflex of Draco’s evidently shared across entire realities. 

It was comforting, in a way. Kind of how it was comforting Ron still never missed a meal and Hermione was a stickler when it came to the rights of non-wizarding magical folk. 

God, he’d been so very selfish, coming here. Not _here_ to the Room (though that was a bit selfish too), but _here_ to this time. Coming back. Even _thinking_ about it. As if he had any right to _wish_ things could’ve been different when they _could have_, if he’d only made an effort. He’d spent _seven years_ with Draco, back in school. Grown up with him. Harry had _known_ there was no way, even on death’s door, Draco would ever have willingly asked him for help. His dying wish had been but for a bit of reassurance, nothing more, and even that had galled him fiercely. Why had Harry then been remotely surprised that Draco had not, at any point in his long, downward spiral, come to Harry for help? You weren’t supposed to wait for people to _ask_ to be saved. You saw them in trouble, and then you acted, on your own, because there were so many more important things than the thrill that came from being needed.

Instead, though, he’d told himself that if someone couldn’t set aside their pride long enough to actually ask for help, then they didn’t deserve it—and that sort of backwards thinking had caused untold collateral damage now. Damage like destroying Hermione and Ron’s best friend. Upending a life that might have panned out all right for Draco even without Harry’s ‘help’. And who knew what had been meant for Parvati and Parkinson before Harry had charged into their lives? Who knew what else he’d ruined, the changes simply as yet unseen? Tottenham effect, indeed.

_Gryffindors_, he thought bitterly to himself. Always finding it easier to ask forgiveness than permission (because, well, it was true). But he was rapidly realising that there was a world of difference between making things better…and making amends. Righting wrongs did not mean the same thing in every universe, or even to every person in a given universe. Harry had thought, before, that he was very good at being an Auror. And he’d been wrong. He’d also thought he was very good at saving people, but he was beginning to accept he might have been wrong about that, too. 

Hermione had told him that she doubted he and Draco did enough talking. That he’d never really asked Draco what _he_ wanted—or at least had not done so and actually listened to what Draco had to say.

So, with no other option really at hand, Harry decided to do just that.

He had the Room Conjure another chair alongside Draco’s: a big, comfortable armchair plushly upholstered in emerald corduroy with braided silver ticking and a matching ottoman that sat atop four handsome legs of ebony. Satisfied with the Room’s work, Harry nodded, then flopped down and threw his feet up onto the ottoman.

“I realise this is liable to earn me a snide remark concerning my glasses, but I’m told I can be a bit…_myopic_ at times.”

He spoke slowly, carefully, injecting no more levity into his words than they themselves evinced. He almost hoped for a jab, though, but received nothing in response. Draco was still sat there, stiff and stony, staring into the fire as if he’d rather dive into its flaming heart than listen to Harry’s awkward attempts at conversation.

Still, Harry persisted, because stubborn persistence had won him more battles with Draco than guile and calculation ever would. 

“It’s just, all I see sometimes is the end I want to get to, and I just…assume things will work out to make that happen. Largely because that’s how it’s always been—only I forget that it ‘always been’ that way because I had so many people helping me. But when it’s just _me_, blindered, arrowing for the Snitch…” He sighed, staring into the flames to try and divine what secret illusions Draco saw in the flickering light. “Well, sometimes I get smacked by a Bludger.”

He shifted his gaze to the side, just enough he could make out Draco in his peripheral vision—then gave a start. Draco was watching him now, those cool grey eyes drilling into him with an utterly unreadable emotion. Not that Draco was ever all that easy to read, outside of his emotional outbursts, but now in particular. The light from the fire played across his pale skin, throwing dark shadows across his sharp cheekbones, and it was entirely too arresting. Harry’s throat tightened—as did his pants. He wished the fire weren’t so high, because it was getting rather warm, and in response, the flames settled, drawing the circle of light that enveloped them smaller and more intimate.

Harry swallowed, throat painfully parched now. “…I can’t go back,” he said, and it came out a raspy whisper. “There was an Unspeakable in McGonagall’s office. The Ouroboros magic, the way it works—” And who was he kidding? He hadn’t a clue how it worked. “Well, all right, I wasn’t paying all the attention I probably should have been, but the gist I gathered was that…it’s a one-way thing.” Draco was still staring at him, unmoving, without so much as the flutter of a lash or quirk of a brow. It was getting a bit unnerving. “The Unspeakable said it was that…Manifold Worlds business. And the body my soul inhabited before, back in my reality—in the future—is gone, so I can’t go back to it. And also the soul I shoved out of this body when I came to this reality—the, ah, ‘insufferable knob who hates you’? Er, he’s gone too, evidently…” Harry scratched his ear.

“Gone?” Draco shifted forward, frown lines creasing. “What do you mean _gone_?”

Harry waved a hand. “Gone, as in—like, _gone_.”

“Disappeared?”

“…Dead. Or whatever happens to a soul without a body. The Unspeakable said it was like—” He bit his tongue, though. There was certainly no need to repeat the comparison. It’d turned Harry’s stomach enough to hear it the once. “Well. The point of it is I haven’t a body to go back to, even if there were a way to counter the Ouroboros venom. So…I suppose I’m staying here.”

Draco’s lip curled. “You mean you’re _stuck_ here.”

Harry wanted to bash himself over the head with the lovely ottoman upon which he was presently resting his feet. “That’s not what I—” he started, then took a bracing breath. “I didn’t say that. _At all_.”

“But you don’t want to _be here_.”

“And I didn’t say _that_ either!” Harry slumped back in his chair. “What’s the point of my speaking if you’re going to just assume everything before I even put words to lips?” He pushed up his glasses to rub at his eyes. “I _do_ want to be here. I mean, I _did_—no, I do. Just—” He sighed. “I told you: I wasn’t thinking. I just thought…” But he didn’t really know _what_ he’d thought. Acting rashly on poorly considered assumptions was sort of his modus operandi. “…I suppose I just assumed I could go back, back to my proper time, and everything would be _fixed_ and… And all right, now I actually say it out loud, it’s patently clear I hadn’t actually considered the…er, logistics. Of what everyone I left behind here might have had to deal with, even if I’d been able to pop back as easily as I came.” He was losing his train of thought, his speech going circular as he repeated in what felt like an endless loop _I wasn’t thinking I wasn’t thinking I wasn’t thinking_. He sighed. “…You already knew I was an impetuous, well-meaning idiot before we got all…involved. I can’t imagine this is any great shock for you. But you’ve known me for _seven years_—surely you must understand I wouldn’t just…just, I don’t know, pull a fuck-and-duck.”

Draco’s face went slack with shock. “_Fuck a duck_?”

“No—fuck _and_—forget it.” He stood and dragged the ottoman over before Draco’s armchair, then settled atop it so he could face Draco properly, if from a slightly lower angle than usual. “I know what it looked like, I know what it _sounded_ like. But I wasn’t _trying_ to leave you—”

“You’re mad if you think I’d care the _slightest_ even if you were.”

Harry nodded understandingly. “…Clearly. You were merely overwrought at the thought you might have to run the DA yourself.” Draco shunted his gaze away, and Harry leaned forward, trying to reclaim it. “You…are _quite_ infuriating.” It worked, and Draco’s cheeks went red with anger as he opened his mouth, sharp tongue coiled for a lashing. “But so am I. We’re _really_ bad together, I think we can both agree on that point. But—you have to admit, we’re also kind of good?” His lips quirked up on one side: “One might even say we’re a fair match?”

Draco settled back, running a hand through his hair and huffing, “…That doesn’t make any sense at all.”

“No, I guess it doesn’t.” Harry frowned to himself, slumping forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “…It sounded better in my head. More—grand and romantic.”

“Good gad, you sound like an escapee from the Janus Thickey ward,” Draco scoffed, lifting one loafer to shove Harry lightly across the shoulder. “‘We’re really bad together’ is supposed to be _romantic?_” 

“Hey, I said ‘we’re also kind of good’ after!”

“The very pinnacle of compliments.” Draco listed to the side drunkenly. “Room, Conjure me a fainting couch, I’m swooning.” 

“Don’t do it,” Harry snapped at the Room, eyes flicking to and fro to check no more furniture had manifested.

Draco threw a leg over his knee and settled his hands on the arms of his chair, drumming his fingers boredly. “So you’re stuck here.”

“I told you, I’m not _stuck_—”

“You aren’t going back.”

Harry regarded him carefully, certainly not going to argue now Draco was using the language Harry preferred to describe his predicament. “…I’m not. I’m the only Harry Potter this line’s got now, so _you’re_ stuck with _me_, technically.”

Draco ran his tongue over his teeth, smacking. “…And what does that mean?”

“What does it—? I just told you, I can’t—”

“Potter.” Draco shifted forward, leaning down so he was within striking distance. He tightened his jaw and spoke, very slowly and soft enough Harry might have lost it in the crackling of the fire at his back if he hadn’t been straining, listening with every fibre of his being. “What does it _mean_?”

And _oh_. This was the ‘talking’ bit they never did. Harry’s heart did a little double beat that left him feeling light-headed, because this was foreign territory upon which he was treading now, and everywhere there were mines. He shrugged. “I…I don’t really know, I suppose. That is, it’s…well it’s not entirely up to me, is it? Whatever should…develop.”

He certainly knew what he _wanted_ it to mean. What he’d probably wanted it to mean for far longer than the handful of weeks since he’d stuck his hand down Draco’s pants. But he was rash and impetuous and ever so naïve, especially when it came to _this_ sort of thing—though his chest monster had not reared its ugly head in many a year, blessedly. No, what he wanted and what was best were not always—were maybe even rarely—the same thing. Plus he’d fucked up once already, not considering Draco’s feelings when it came to a decision he’d thoughtlessly made. He could take Draco’s temperature on the matter, first, before opening his big mouth.

Draco studied him for a long moment, then looked away, clearing his throat softly. “…I’ve still got two years of community service, after I graduate.” Harry nodded; they had discussed this before—where ‘discussed’ meant Harry had listened quietly while Draco verbally raked the Ministry over the coals for depriving him of valuable internship opportunities that would only be provided to fresh Hogwarts graduates. “I’d thought…” He seemed to reconsider himself, then closed his eyes and pushed through it in a rush. “I’d thought I might…perhaps do some bookkeeping. For some business or another. I’ve got very good marks in Arithmancy, and it doesn’t require wandwork, and I can hardly get up to any mischief doing sums and drafting bank notes, can I? Or failing that, Weasley’s said his brother might consider having me on at that Wheezes shop of theirs, if I wasn’t above working in the stockroom—”

“Wait—_wait_, fuck, _wait_—” Harry held up a hand, rubbing at his ear with the other. “You…_you_ asked _Ron_ about a job? You asked him if he and George might _hire you_?”

Draco’s head hung low. “You needn’t remind me,” he said, through grit teeth. “I’ve already lived through the humiliation once.”

“But—” Harry protested. “Ron never said a word—and surely he would have at least _mentioned_ it if…” His world was spinning. Up was down, left was right, and Ron had been civil to Draco, all on his own, without Harry asking.

“Well that’s because I gave him strict instructions _not_ to tell you. I was very angry with you—I still am, let’s make that clear—but I’m nothing if not a Slytherin, and I wasn’t about to let raw emotion undermine these months of my hard work.” It was here Harry realised this meant he’d approached Ron _after_ their row; furious as he’d been, he’d still trusted he was master of his own fate. Harry’s heart swelled with pride. _Fuck_, he was never going to stop being impressed by this git. Draco sniffed, a superior affectation. “I kept it very simple, so I’m certain he understood. It was only meant to be a temporary measure, anyway. To help me find my feet. A way to ensure I kept my head down and nose clean until…” He wiped a hand over his face and closed his eyes, shaking his head. “Until it was time.”

“Time? Time for…” And Harry’s stomach dropped away. It was a good thing he was already sitting, else his legs might have given out. As it was, he swayed in place, taking several tries before he found his voice again: “You…you were going to wait for me? Until—until he became _me_?”

Draco made a sound of defeat in the back of his throat and sprang to his feet, pacing nervously and gesturing wildly as he spoke. “I told you, I’ve _no_ patience for the man you were before, and having to be around you—_him_—day in and day out would only cause grief and heart—” He cleared his throat. “_Heartburn_.” He straightened, fixing Harry with a long, torn look. “…But it wouldn’t have been impossible. And I thought…I thought, oh, I’ve waited seven years already for you to give me the time of day. What would another seven be, in the grand scheme of things?” He lifted one lacy white brow, kicking the foot of Harry’s ottoman, “Especially when we’re so _bad_ together?”

Even half-sneered, it still sounded right in Harry’s ears: “So you admit we’re good together, then?”

Draco’s lips thinned. “Let’s not be too hasty.”

It wasn’t nearly enough to quench Harry’s buoyant spirits. “…You don’t have to wait seven years now, though. If you don’t want to, that is.” He reached out, brushing Draco’s fingers, and threaded them through his. “Just—there’s no point in waiting, is there? If I’m still going to be here, being _myself_—”

Draco pulled his hand away and took a careful step back, staring down his long, patrician nose at Harry. “…Will you, though?”

It felt like a cloud had just passed over the sun. “…What do you mean? Will I—what?”

“Still be _you_?” Harry wasn’t processing, and Draco firmed his jaw, crossing his arms over his chest. “I asked you what your staying here meant. And you said you didn’t get to decide—except that’s bullshit, because of _course_ you get to decide. For yourself, at least, not for me. So now’s your turn: What will you do now? You can’t go back—you’re stuck here, whether you want to call it that or not. So will you just…pick up where you left off? Owl Roberts—”

“Ro_bards_…”

“—_Robards _to say you’ll be ready to start Monday and can he clear you a desk to use? Are you going to do all the same things over again?” Draco stepped forward, into the cradle of Harry’s knees, and he was reminded, with an uncomfortable start, that he’d stood like this with Draco in Azkaban. It’d given him a thrill, the power he’d felt in that moment. He felt distressingly vulnerable now. “Become the same _you_?”

Harry awkwardly scrambled to his feet, putting some necessary distance between himself and Draco, because it was entirely too difficult to think straight when he could feel Draco’s body heat and smell that ridiculously fancy cologne his mother had sent him for Valentine’s Day. “Well—obviously I won’t be doing the _exact_ same things. But…” He shrugged. “I mean, I don’t know what else I _could_ do! I’m good at being an Auror—”

“You’re _shit_ at being an Auror. Look at you, you got yourself bitten by a magical creature on a routine security stint and _wrote yourself out of existence_—”

“Well it’s what I know!”

“Then ho, what luck you’re standing inside a _fucking school_ right now. You can learn all _sorts_ of new things if you put your mind to it. It isn’t as if you don’t have the time now.” He stabbed Harry in the chest with one long, pointy finger. “Become a new you, then. A _better_ you.”

Harry took hot offence at Draco’s insinuation he wasn’t just fine as he was—then listened, actually listened, to what he was saying, frowning. “…You sound like you’ve got a few ideas on that front.”

Draco shoved him hard across the chest, nearly sending him pinwheeling backwards into the fire. “I’m _overflowing_ with ideas, Potter. I’m a font of innovation, a wellspring of notions.” He cocked his head in a nervous tick. “But since you bring it up: I think you ought to consider a professorship. Defence Against the Dark Arts, to be specific.”

Harry boggled. “Wha—a _professorship_? Here?”

“No, Mahoudokoro—of _course_ here.”

And then Harry laughed, a loud bright bark, because, well, it was _ridiculous_. “You’re being ridiculous. You’re joking. You must be.”

“I assure you I am _not_.”

“But did you hear yourself?”

“Of course I did; I’m all I listen to sometimes. I’m _fascinating_. I’m also _right_. You aren’t to let this go to your head—though I suspect you will—but you’re rather good at teaching, if you haven’t noticed. Your students respect you—”

“You respect me?”

And now Draco laughed, though his was more of a cruel bray that threw spittle. “Now _you’re_ joking. Do be serious. I’m giving you a rare compliment; don’t fuck it up by interrupting me.” He smoothed down his hair, patting gently as he collected himself. “You’ve been playing at being a professor all year, Potter. You might as well get paid for it.”

Harry waited a beat, until he couldn’t be accused of interrupting again. “…I’ve got no qualifications.”

“You killed a fucking Dark Lord at seventeen and have probably added a few new spells to your repertoire in the years since. You’re more qualified than a fair few who’ve held the position.”

Harry held his arms out. “Except I’m _only eighteen_ now. McGonagall’s not going to put a fresh graduate on the payroll.”

“She’s got _no one_ on the payroll right now. What do you think the _Prophet’s_ going to have to say when entire years of Hogwarts students fail their Defence O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s? She can’t be picky, now can she? This Unspeakable that was in her office—I assume McGonagall was present for the whole song and dance as well?” Harry nodded. “Well there you have it. You’re certainly old enough on the inside for her to seriously consider you for the position, and who’s really going to complain their precious little darlings are getting lessons on how to defend themselves from the Saviour of the Wizarding World?”

Harry was rapidly running out of excuses, and Draco seemed to only be warming up. “But—I’ve never run a _proper_ classroom. I haven’t the faintest clue what I’d be meant to do! It’s one thing to run a DA meeting once a week where participation is voluntary—it’s another thing entirely to follow a _curriculum_.”

Draco scoffed. “Don’t be dramatic.” And that was rich, coming from him. “It can’t be that difficult, really. Demonstrate a few spells, assign some reading, mark a few essays. Turn the occasional innocent cherub into a ferret for your amusement and mentally scar them for life.”

“Again: _that was not Mad-Eye_. It was a _Death Eater_. If you’ve got a problem with it, you can take it up with your old boss.”

“I would, but _somebody_ went and defended the world against his dark arts.” He gave Harry a pointed look. “Really, you have to take the position, I think. Demand it if you must.”

“Oh,” Harry laughed, not very amused. “I _have to_, do I?”

“Yes, because the alternative is hazardous to your health.” He raked Harry with a scathing look. “Knowing you, you’d somehow manage to get yourself bitten by _another_ Ouroboros. And I can’t in good conscience inflict you upon another unsuspecting universe.”

Ridiculous as he was being, Harry supposed he could see Draco’s point. He didn’t know that he was a very good teacher—certainly didn’t _feel_ like one, really—but there’d never been any complaints from the DA members, had there? Not in fifth year, and not now, and if even _Draco _was stooping to compliment his skills in moulding malleable young minds, then there had to be a bit of truth to it, didn’t there? 

He frowned to himself. “…But—what would you do then? I can’t really help you if it’s not through the Ministry. And it’s nice of Ron to offer you a place at his and George’s shop, but…well, that’s not exactly a _career_, is it?”

Draco boggled, spitting back, “Good _gad_, Potter, of _course_ it’s not a career. What do you take me for?”

“But—you said—”

“I said _until_, you nitwit. _Until_. Purely a stopgap measure—and only _if_ I couldn’t find something better with which to occupy myself in the meantime! Did you honestly see me skulking about the Wheezes stockrooms clearing away cobwebs and dustbunnies until my heart gave out?”

“Er…” Harry started, because he didn’t think he was meant to answer _yes_, but that was distressingly close to the truth.

“_Fuck you_. As I’ve told you—on _multiple_ occasions: I don’t need your help, Potter.” And now Harry was very lost, and a bit frustrated, because it sounded to him like they were right back where they started, with Draco digging his heels in and refusing to accept Harry’s outstretched hand. Maybe he _wasn’t_ destined for the Kiss in this universe, but that didn’t mean he could let his guard down, and what sort of Slytherin didn’t capitalise on any and all— “I’ve been speaking with the Headmistress.”

“Headmistress? McGonagall?”

“Know any other Headmistresses?” Draco sneered. He crushed some imaginary bit of debris under the toe of his loafer absently. “She’s been meeting with the Seventh Years since the fall term, doling out crumbs of advice like they’re ginger-spiced biscuits, and while I’m not exactly partial to being told what to do with my life…I thought to make an appointment of my own.” He studied his nails. “You know. Once it became clear you’d made _no_ arrangements for the next seven years and meant to saddle me with your insufferable doppelganger.”

“I wasn’t _saddling_ you with—I told you I just hadn’t considered—”

“Slughorn wants to retire again. For good, this time.”

Harry blinked, slowly. “…Oh. Well, I’m honestly shocked he stuck around at all after the war. He never wanted to come back in the first place.”

“And miss the chance to rub elbows with all the new ‘war heroes’? You must be joking.” Draco shuffled back over to his—well, Harry’s—armchair, flopping down inelegantly. “He’s been hounding McGonagall about it since September, it seems—something about an Unplottable private island in the South China Sea and the untold fortune he intends to make farming magical coconuts.”

“Magical coconuts?”

“Evidently the husks make _fantastic_ broom bristles, and the Cleansweep Broom Company has already petitioned him for exclusive rights to his reserves, hoping to stage a comeback in the market. But I digress.” He massaged his temples, eyes closed. “McGonagall understandably doesn’t want anyone on staff who doesn’t want to be here, so she’s more than happy to kick Slughorn to the kerb—only trouble would be she’d be down both a Potions professor and a Slytherin Head of House.”

“Mm. Yeah, suppose there’s that. Is he really the only Slytherin on staff?” Harry had always had his doubts about Grubbly-Plank. She’d jumped into Hagrid’s position running Care of Magical Creatures _far_ too eagerly for Harry’s comfort.

Draco sat forward in his chair, staring with his mouth half-agape at Harry. “…Can you _truly_ not put the pieces together, Potter? I’ve got to spell it out for you?” He scrubbed a hand over his face, looking thoroughly put out, though Harry couldn’t see why. “_Me_. Me, teaching Potions.”

“Wha—_you_? Teaching _Potions_?”

“I just fucking sai—yes.”

“But you’re…” Harry waved a hand. “Well you’re too young!”

“Of course I’m _too young_, you gormless fool. Obviously I’d do my Potions Mastery by Owl, student-teaching alongside Slughorn until I’ve gotten properly credentialed. It’s usually a three-year course, but I’ve no intention of taking more than a year, year-half if I can manage it.” He shuddered. “Stocking shelves as the Weasleys’ glorified janitor certainly ought to be encouragement enough to buckle down and finish my thesis in record time.” He braced a foot against Harry’s ottoman, shoving it out of the way and Conjuring one of his own, putting up his feet. “It did take a bit of convincing—McGonagall was an easy enough sell, but Slughorn’s a lazy fatarse who’s already got one foot out the door and wasn’t keen to outsource his coconut farming for another year-plus. But I talked them around.” He quirked a brow. “Like I said, Malfoys are _very_ good at bending people to our will.” He shrugged. “It helped as well your Potions marks aren’t nearly as abysmal as they once were. I suppose McGonagall figured if I could teach _you_, I could handle a few rowdy First Years.”

Harry’s mounting excitement quickly subsumed the hot flash of offence he felt at Draco’s slight against his Potions skills. “That—well, that’s _great_! That’s…” But then he felt his smile falter, just a little. “That’s really amazing. I’m proud of you, honest.”

Draco regarded him with a wary coolness, fingers laced together. “Yes, clearly.”

“No, I—” Harry shook his head, running his fingers through his hair to brush it from his eyes. He’d always kept it cropped short before, regulations being what they were, but he’d let it grow out a bit these past few months, indulging in a belated rebellious teenage phase. He shrugged. “I really am happy for you. Just, I guess…I’m still a little disappointed.” Before Draco could misinterpret his words, he rushed to add, “That I couldn’t convince you to be an Auror with me. I really do think we might’ve had fun. It’s exciting, if nothing else.”

“Emphasis on the _nothing else_,” Draco sighed. “Potter, I told you that was never going to happen, and while I gather you ignore a great many things I say, I’d thought I’d mentioned _this_ enough times it might have eked through.” He Vanished the ottoman with a huff and leaned forward, settling his elbows on his thighs. “You must understand I simply haven’t the raw, brutish numbskullery the DMLE really looks for in their recruits. I fear I wouldn’t be suited to so thuggish a lifestyle as would be expected of a fresh face on the Auror force.” He reached out to pat Harry gamely on the head. “I wouldn’t want to reflect poorly on you for recommending me.”

“Ah,” Harry said dryly. “So this is an entirely altruistic decision, then? To help me save face?”

“Your face needs all the saving it can get.”

“Piss off. You like my face.”

“I also hear it’s a dreadfully dangerous line of work. In fact the last Auror I spoke to told me he’d accidentally wiped himself from existence, the poor fellow.” And Harry had to laugh now, because really, when you thought about it, horrifying and depressing as it was…it was also a _little_ bit funny. And laughing was all he could do about it. This made Draco smile, though, a soft, sad little thing that wasn’t funny at all. It was heart-stopping was what it was. “Spend all that time trying to save others and look what happens when you’ve got no one trying to save _you_.”

Harry swallowed thickly, willing his heart to start up its beating again, because much more of this and he was going to faint dead away, and that would just be embarrassing. “This is why I needed a good partner.” Draco gave a dramatic roll of his eyes, and Harry huffed in amusement, kicking the clawed foot of the armchair. “…You’re sure about this?”

Draco raked him with an even look, expression betraying nothing. “I could ask you the same.”

“Well, I mean—I _liked_ being an Auror. I was good at it—” Draco opened his mouth to protest, and Harry quickly amended, “Or all right, I _thought_ I was, at least, but…” He shrugged. “It’s not my dream.”

Draco took a bracing breath. “…What is?”

“I don’t know, actually…” No one had ever really asked him that. The closest anyone had ever come was McGonagall in fifth year, when he’d naïvely thought it might be thrilling running around chasing Dark wizards for a living. The idea still held a bit of romantic fascination, but perhaps it was time to put away childish fantasies and act his age, for once. “I suppose it couldn’t hurt to try something else this time around. Who knows, maybe it’ll stick.” He brought his feet around to bracket Draco’s polished loafers with his own tatty trainers. “…This is really what you want to do, though? Because I know I told you I’ve only got pull at the Ministry, but you know me. I’d only be too happy to throw the full force of my Saviour weight around wherever suits you, if you were of a mind to do something else. It may not sit right with, and I respect that, but you really _don’t_ have to do this all on your own.”

And then Draco snapped a hand out, grabbing Harry by the wrist and tugging insistently, until Harry had his bony arse sat in Draco’s lap, legs akimbo and expression bewildered. He struggled in the awkward embrace, huffing, “What the f—”

“Potter,” Draco said, voice soft and commanding, and Harry immediately ceased his squirming. “My father is dead, my mother is in self-imposed exile, my family home has been taken from me, and my name is in ruins. All this time, despite your valiant efforts, I confess I haven’t been able to think of a _single thing _I want to do with my life.” He swallowed, throat bobbing. “Except to live it.”

And uncomfortable as the position was, Harry smiled, toothy and knowing. “...I reckon I could help with that.”

“Mm,” Draco said, brows quirking. “What are friends for?”

“Thought we weren’t friends?” Harry said, and Draco gave a single-shouldered shrug.

“Let’s start there. And then see how things go.”


	14. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every new beginning...

_“Mr. Potter-Malfoy_.”

Harry blearily opened his eyes, wincing at the blinding sunlight streaming in through the set of tall bay windows lining his eastern wall. Whose bright idea had it been to put _windows_ on the eastern wall of a bedroom? A morning person with a nasty sadistic streak, that was who.

_“Mr. Potter-Malfoy_.”

Harry blinked—and found himself staring into two beady little eyes that glittered with malicious delight. He groaned inwardly. “Right, I’m up.”

_“Mr. Potter-Malfoy,_” the little stoat Patronus squeaked again, ignoring his protests and doing a spastic war dance across his chest. _“Mr. Potter-Malfoy. Mr. Potter-Malfoy, please wake up._”

“I am. I’m up, look at me.”

_“Wake the fuck up, Mr. Potter-Malfoy._”

“_Language_,” Harry muttered, taking a weak swipe at the Patronus before bringing his hands up to rub at his eyes. The ghostly white stoat gave him a snooty little nip and then scampered away, diving off the side of the bed and darting for the bedroom door—

“And our Saviour awakens!” Draco announced dramatically, kicking the door open as he swanned into the room while carefully levitating before him a large platter covered with a gleaming silver cloche. “I can see it’s a good thing I sent ahead to check you were awake.”

Harry shifted upright, cushioning his back with every pillow he could reach. “Your Patronus cursed at me. Did you tell it to curse at me?”

Draco placed a Hovering Charm on the cloche while he arranged a breakfast tray atop the duvet. “Not in so many words. It does tend to get mouthy when I use your wand, though.” He waved Harry’s holly wand for show.

“Wha—don’t go nicking my wand! It’s rude.” He made a grab for it, but Draco took a measured step back, just out of reach, and used the wand to fill a crystal goblet with pumpkin juice, because _Aguamenti_’d gotten too pedestrian for the swot a few years back. Fucking show-off. 

“You used mine for the better part of Seventh Year,” Draco said, placing the goblet on the tray and guiding the floating cloche-covered platter to settle beside it. “I’m only balancing the scales. Besides, I couldn’t find mine.”

Harry refused to be impressed by the display, arms crossed over his chest and lips twisted into a very real frown. “Maybe if you’d stop showing off how many wandless spells you can do, you wouldn’t lose track of it.”

“And maybe if you’d bother to learn more than _Lubrico_ wandlessly you wouldn’t pitch a fit when someone ‘nicks’ your wand.” He flipped the wand around, passing it back to Harry hilt-first. Harry’s hand snapped out to tug it free, but Draco held fast. “Half of that’s mine, you know.”

“It doesn’t work that way.”

“How would you know? You never read the fine print.”

“No, but Hermione does, and she likes me more than she likes you.” Draco wrinkled his nose, because it was the honest truth, and Harry was going to count that as his round. He nodded to the tray. “…What’s this here, then?”

Draco’s wrinkled nose smoothed as his lips curved into a smile. He lifted the cloche, and Harry was hit by a wave of aromatic bliss, spicy and sweet and savoury and everything in between, all his very favourites. “A very happy birthday to you, Mr. Potter-Malfoy.”

“Can you not?” he complained, though it came out a bit garbled with the way his mouth was watering at the sumptuous spread Draco had prepared. “It sounds weird when you say it.”

Draco shook out a cloth napkin, holding it out for Harry to take. “Because it _is_ weird. It ought to be Malfoy-Potter.”

“You only say that because you wanted your name first—but we agreed—”

“We certainly did _not_—”

“We _did_.” Harry snatched the napkin, draping it over his lap. He still had the bedclothes drawn up, but if anything dribbled on the duvet, he’d never hear the end of it. Something about spellwork ruining the weave on any thread count over five hundred and meaning the sheets would have to be hand-washed. “We had witnesses and everything. We agreed that there’d be a big to-do if I were ever anything but ‘Harry Potter’, and this way you’ll always be a Malfoy in the end.”

“Ugh. Spare me your Gryffindor logic. Enduring this was _not _in the vows.”

“How is that _Gryffindor_ log—and _you _were the one who insisted we share the same name, which I want you to know was rich coming from someone who swore up and down he’d _die_ a Malfoy. I’m a modern man; I would’ve been fine keeping everything as it was.”

Draco gave him a long, disbelieving look. “…You would _not_.”

“…All right fine, you got me.” Harry shrugged, throwing Draco a rakish grin as he picked up his fork. Should he dig into the eggs Benedict first, or the fluffy French toast? Perhaps both at once; it _was_ his birthday, after all. “Fun to scandalise people, though, isn’t it?”

“Mm,” Draco hummed, his devious smile curling in on itself now. He waggled his brows. “I get through the pain of your name coming first knowing Rita Skeeter likely vomits just a little into her mouth every time she has to use it when she writes another hit-piece on you.”

And that was a thought powerful enough to produce a _dozen_ Patronuses. “To think you once admired her.”

“Oh I still do,” Draco said, settling down on the edge of the mattress with care not to jostle the breakfast tray. “She’s absolutely brilliant. That article she wrote on Aberforth owning a controlling share in that goat farm was _deliciously _scandalous. I always knew there was something funny about him.” 

Harry frowned, appetite faltering. Aberforth had been _humiliated_, and the share in the farm had only been willed to him by some great-uncle or another; he’d never even set foot in Cameroon. 

Draco did not miss the souring of his mood, though, and reached forward to tuck a lock of Harry’s hair behind his ear. He tutted softly. “But she’s also a fucking hag who makes your life miserable, and I’m the only one allowed to do that.”

Draco clearly thought this was _terribly_ romantic, but Harry supposed he wasn’t one to talk himself; he’d once gleefully told Draco he thought they were terrible together. It was a wonder Draco hadn’t clocked him where he stood. Instead, Harry grimaced and moved to push the plate away. “On my _birthday_? Really, we’re talking about Skeeter and Aberforth’s odd interests? You’re going to put me off this lovely spread you’ve made me.”

“Heavens forfend.” Draco reached for the spoon, using it to dip into the little bowl of granola-topped yoghurt, then guided it to Harry’s lips. Harry obliged, accepting the bite, and Draco chuckled, a rough, gruff thing that made Harry’s spine tingle. “Happy twenty-fifth, Mr. Potter-Malfoy.” He dipped the spoon in again to gather up another dollop, stealing a bite for himself. “Or is it your thirty-second?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “You make that joke every year, you know. It’s really getting old.”

“Mm, just like you.”

“Some days I don’t know why I put up with you.”

“I expect it’s because of the magically binding vows.”

Sitting this close, Harry could smell Draco’s cologne—what a priss, when he was going to have to shower shortly anyway. Maybe it was a self-confidence thing, though; he wouldn’t let Harry kiss him before he’d brushed his teeth, either. It was such an odd thing, a dent in his proud veneer. Like Harry might realise, after seven whole years, he wasn’t _actually_ perfect, when it was part of the allure, being the only one privy to Draco at his most vulnerable.

Even if he hoped to never see Draco brought so low, ever again. Even if some days—like today—he didn’t think he could stop replaying it, over and over in his mind.

“…You’re brooding…” Draco said, _thwap_ping the little furrow between Harry’s beetling brows. Harry winced, bringing his hand up to rub, and Draco’s lips thinned into a tightly pressed line. “It’s too early in the day for that. What’s twisting _your_ knickers? Is it the bacon again? Because I don’t want to hear another round of bitching. Lean turkey meat is _just_ as tasty as your nasty hog shavings, and you’re on the wrong side of twenty now, Chosen One, so you ought to do something about that paunch—” He pinched Harry’s midriff, and Harry convulsed in reflex, nearly upsetting the breakfast tray. “—Before it becomes a problem.” He shook a finger in Harry’s face. “I _refuse_ to be seen on the arm of anyone with more than 10% body fat, so you can either choke down the turkey bacon, or we can find new and interesting ways to keep your burgeoning love handles from destroying our marriage.”

And Harry had to smile a little at that, though even he could tell it wasn’t quite reaching his eyes. He grabbed one of Draco’s waving hands before it could pinch or poke or prod any other vulnerable bits of Harry. “It’s not the bacon,” he reassured. “Though would it be so terrible to have what _I_ want for breakfast on my birthday?”

“Yes. I would find it terrible. And since I’m the one who’d be making it, that’s all that matters. Do learn to think of others, Potter.” He then grimaced and added, as if it were bitter on his tongue, “…Malfoy.”

“You could just use my given name, you know.” Draco only sniffed, and Harry smiled ruefully, shrugging. “Just…this is where it started. Today.”

He could feel Draco’s frown shifting from one of petulant indignation to one of wary confusion. “…What on earth are you blathering on about?”

And Harry really didn’t want to start his birthday off on a low note, but it was difficult to get around. He kind of needed to say it, at least to get it out there and off his chest, or else it was going to dog his footsteps all day, maybe through the weekend. “I mean…it was today. My birthday. My twenty-fifth.” He licked his lips, swallowing. “The day that…when you died. Before. In the other place.”

Draco went very quiet. This was rarely a good sign—Harry couldn’t think of one instance, in their seven years together, where he’d been quiet and Harry’s first thought hadn’t been _Oh fuck, I’ve stepped in it now_. 

But then Draco tugged his arm gently, angling his wrist so he could lace his fingers in Harry’s. He gave a weak squeeze, smiling wryly to himself. “…They killed me on your birthday? How barbaric. An execution on a public holiday.”

Harry’s shoulders slumped. “For the last time, my birthday was not, is not, and never will be a holiday.”

“Well not with _that _attitude it won’t.”

“_Draco_.”

“I’m only saying, if you sacrifice yourself for the good of humanity, wizarding and Muggle alike, they could give you an official day off, just the one.”

“_Draco_,” Harry said, serious and sharp, because this was _important_. 

“_Harry_,” Draco said, with an infuriating smile, and he drew Harry’s hand up to his lips, kissing the knuckles before resting his cheek against them. “There, I’ve used your given name.”

“So you _do_ know it,” Harry drawled, then angled his hand so he was caressing Draco’s jaw. He ran his thumb over the soft bit of fuzz covering Draco’s chin, evidence of his latest doomed effort to grow facial hair. He sighed. “…I’m just glad, is all. That you made it. That you—I dunno, beat your fate.” He’d told Draco he would, after all. But still, he would not deny there’d been a small part of him, huddling in a dark corner of his heart, that had dreaded this day as much as been impatient for it to arrive. Draco’s life here was absolutely nothing like it had been in Harry’s original line—a world away, in every sense of the phrase—but still. Fear was rarely a logical thing—fear for a loved one even less so.

But Draco slapped his hand away, drawing back with a sneering scoff. “Don’t be stupid, _Potter_.” And he only called him that—called him that and _meant it_—when he was especially annoyed at Harry. Like when Harry had worn his ratty trainers to their wedding, or when he’d worn a neon-pink bow-tie to the end-of-term feast, or when he’d worn a hoodie to meet Narcissa that first time in Marseilles. 

He didn’t think Draco’s attitude had much to do with his fashion at the moment, though; especially given he wasn’t wearing anything at all.

“Just because my father didn’t die when you thought he would didn’t keep him from dying _at all_. And just because I’m sitting here feeding you breakfast and bearing your name doesn’t mean my life can’t still go to shit, somehow, some way—because believe you me, I’m _very_ resourceful.” He fixed those sharp grey eyes on Harry, boring into him with a malicious sort of sincerity. “Some things you can’t prevent—you can only delay them.”

“Bullshit,” Harry said, bringing his fist down on the breakfast tray so hard all the flatware jumped with a loud tinkle. “That’s _not_ going to happen—”

“You’re fucking _right_ it won’t happen,” Draco spat, haughty as anything, and Harry found himself flung through time once more, twenty years back when he’d wanted to sock the sneer right off that smug, stupid face. “Because I won’t let it.” And _oh_. “But there’s no winning. No _beating_ anything. It’s just living. Living and trying.”

Harry’s heart swelled with pride, thudding so hard he thought it might leap from his chest and flop onto his plate alongside the eggs Benedict. God, he loved this man. Didn’t rightly know, to be honest, how he’d made it through everything his school years had thrown at him _without_ this man. And logic, he supposed, would tell him that he’d made it through _despite_ this man, if they were being honest, because _this man_ was not _that boy_, and that was the entire point of things. He could mourn for what might have been, all he liked, so long as he remembered that it was but a fantasy and could not have happened. Not in any universe Harry could imagine, at least. 

It was enough they had each other now, though. And that was a pretty damn fine birthday present, when he stopped to think about it.

“Well I’m glad, then,” Harry said, lifting his brows to try and bring the mood back around to something lighter and less tense. “That you’re trying so very hard.”

Draco was very much of a mind to oblige, whether because it was Harry’s birthday or because he simply wasn’t up to rowing this early in the morning, early bird that he might be. “Yes, well. As I’ve told you _exhaustively_: your fair warning of my imminent demise was much appreciated but—”

“Was it?” Harry asked, because sometimes, he just wanted to hear it. He licked his lips. “Appreciated?”

And Draco gave him a long look that said he ought to know without being told, then twisted the gold band on his finger for show. “…Yes. Yes it was.”

Harry grinned, and when he spoke again, his voice came out a bit rougher than he’d meant it to. “Aren’t you glad I didn’t fuck off?”

“Mm. I’ve come around to the idea.” Draco wrinkled his nose. “But it _has_ been quite the chore at times.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Indeed. I’ve had to put up with unimaginable shit thanks to you.”

“Like what?”

“Like having to introduce myself as _Potter-Malfoy_ now.”

“Oh _don’t_ start that again, come on.” He reached out and weakly slugged Draco across the shoulder. “Hey, how did your students handle it, anyway?”

“Hm?” Draco began picking at Harry’s plate again, nosing about in the fruit salad and stealing a grape. “Handle what?”

“With your name. Mine still slipped up quite a bit, especially near the end of term—I think their minds were a bit frayed from cramming for exams and it was too much to remember. The older ones in particular, I guess since they’ve known me as just _Professor Potter_ for longer. I let it slide for now—”

“You _let it slide_?” Draco gasped, spraying Harry with bits of half-chewed grape. “They’ll never learn that way! Naturally I placed a curse on them all; their tongues grew fur if they misnamed me.”

And that, Harry supposed, explained rather a lot about the poor marks several of his Fourth Years had earned on their oral exams. Harry shook his head, marvelling. “God, you really are worse than Snape sometimes, you know that?”

Draco leered, waving another grape at Harry. “Ooh, compliments will get you _everywhere_.”

Harry opened his mouth, and Draco tossed it in, his aim impeccable. “Well, seeing as it’s my birthday, I _was_ hoping for a present of some sort, and compliments are usually the quickest way to get you…_amenable_.”

“Oh there are quicker ways, and you well know it.” Draco raked him with an appreciative gaze. “But really, angling for birthday sex at half-eight in the morning? That’s ambitious for a man of your years.”

“Jackarse.” Harry reached over to pinch him, knowing he was particularly sensitive around the waistline, but he couldn’t move quickly enough without upsetting the breakfast tray, and Draco easily rolled away, hopping to his feet.

“Eat up now, _Darling_. We’ve a full day ahead of us.”

“It’s _my_ birthday,” Harry said, contrary. “Shouldn’t I get to decide how we spend it?”

“Absolutely not. If we spent it the way you probably _want _to spend it, it’d just be another Tuesday.” And Draco had something of a point, but Harry wasn’t about to say so. He began ticking items off on his fingers. “First we have Quidditch with Tedward—”

“It’s _Edward_,” Harry sighed. “And it’s _Teddy_. God you sound like a wanker when you call him that.”

“Hush, he adores it.” Which was an understatement, to be truthful; Teddy had laughed so hard at his nickname he’d actually wet himself the last time they’d had him over for a Saturday playdate. “Then there will be Weasleys to visit and subpar gifts to be showered with and drinks with your friends—”

“_Our_ friends.”

“Oh, so _now_ I get half?” Harry rolled his eyes, and Draco refreshed the Warming Charm on the eggs Benedict wandlessly, because he was Draco. “And this _is_ how you wanted to spend your birthday, so stop whining.”

“You like it when I whine, though.”

“No, I like it when we do the things that _make_ you whine.” He slipped forward and pressed a kiss to Harry’s forehead. “Context is everything.” He inclined his head to the en-suite. “I’m going to shower now. Join me when you’ve finished.” 

It wasn’t a request, and Harry watched helplessly as Draco disappeared into the bathroom, shivering when a wave of arousal overtook his appetite.

He tamped it down, though, and stared at his tray. It really was a gorgeous spread—all of Harry’s favourites from his years at Hogwarts as well as a few new dishes Draco had turned him on to through relentless insistence on expanding Harry’s palate. There was even a plate of crisply toasted baguette slices slathered in a dark jam that Harry would bet his whole Gringott’s vault had been Flooed in fresh from the charming little _boulangerie_ around the corner from Narcissa’s apartments on the Riviera.

_“There’s no winning,”_ Draco had said—but Harry didn’t know about that. Because this, _this_ that they had, this breakfast and these bedclothes and this golden band on his finger and that stupid bank of windows that opened to the east, it really _felt_ like a win. Like they’d accomplished something truly spectacular, something impossible, together.

But maybe it was different for Draco. For him, Harry supposed, it would be a constant battle. Worry hanging over him like Damocles’s sword that some day, he’d slip up, or something else entirely outside of his control would swoop in and snatch away his hard-wrought happiness. Harry couldn’t alleviate it, couldn’t comfort him any more now than seven years ago, because while anything could _theoretically_ be changed—it was only feasible if you actually did the work. If you actually _tried_. So that was what Draco was doing: living, and trying. Harry was simply along for the ride.

Still, while Draco had derided this day as any sort of ‘milestone’, Harry couldn’t deny there was an upswelling of relief spreading through his chest—as well as a flicker of anxiety. Because, well, now there was only _forward_. From here on out, it would be the great unknown, for the both of them.

Sure, not everything had been exactly the same as Harry had remembered it—the ring on his finger and fewer stress lines around his eyes were certainly testament to that—but he’d been able to follow it to some degree. It had been comforting, in a way, even though he had never again acted on his knowledge of the ‘future’ for personal gain (well, he _had_ insinuated to Ron that a proposal at the Solstice Ball might go over better than one at the Cannons’ season closer, but that had been the end of it). 

Now, though? Now—it was a mystery. They were on an even playing field at last, he and Draco, both blindly groping about and hoping that whatever thread they grasped on to was the right one to follow.

It wasn’t scary; it was downright _terrifying_. But even six years out of Hogwarts (or thirteen, but who was counting?), Harry still subscribed to that Gryffindor motto that life wasn’t really worth living without an accompanying healthy dose of white-knuckled fear. 

And at least this way, they’d be lost together. After all, the dark was much less frightening when you had someone there with you.

Muffled, through the door, Harry heard the shower taps squeak and creak—followed by the unmistakable notes of someone loudly humming the H.A.R.R.Y. anthem over the hiss of running water.

He devoured his breakfast in record time, then Banished his tray and dishes back to the kitchen before tossing aside the duvet and padding into the bathroom to deliver his complaints about the turkey bacon to the chef in person.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...comes from some other beginning's end.


End file.
